


Poisoned Mind

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Dutch friendship, Arthur Hosea friendship, Arthur John friendship, Arthur Whump, Family, Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Poison, Sick Arthur, hurt Arthur, sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-23 18:01:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17688221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: A desperate search for new opportunities leaves Dutch grasping for anything he can find. Which, unfortunately for a blindly loyal Arthur, leads them to a party destined to fall apart, Dutch unable to see the danger until it's too late.Poisoned, lost, and pursued, Arthur begins to wonder if his luck has finally run out.





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur hated parties. 

Luckily, they weren’t common the way he lived his life. He’d take sleeping on the forest floor with nothing but a blanket and a dying campfire over polished floors and stuffy corridors any day. 

But Dutch, stupidly charismatic Dutch, had gone and gotten them invited to some fancy party at some rich New Yorker’s vacation home outside of Strawberry, and Arthur had been stuffed into a black suit along with Hosea and John, whisked away on his horse before he knew what was happening, following Dutch blindly once again. 

“So, who is this guy?” Arthur asked, dismounting when he was instructed to, the horses being lead to the back of the house by silent servants.   

“Brandon Smallcut,” Dutch said, briskly walking up the front steps. “He’s a businessman from New York I met. He thinks he can help with our...situation. So be on your best behavior and try not to embarrass us.” 

“I’m not--” 

“Mr. Smallcut!” And Dutch was gone, his face breaking out into a cheery facade, distracted like he would be the rest of the night. Focused only on the promise of potential money. 

“Just go along with it,” Hosea advised. “Both of you. It wouldn’t hurt to have this guy on our side, or at least have him point us in the right direction. We have to move fast. After what happened in Valentine the Pinkertons will be everywhere.” 

Arthur didn’t even know why he was here. If Dutch wanted protection, he could have brought anyone else. Javier, despite the idiotically unfair way people tended to view him, would no doubt feel perfectly at ease, and Bill had a gift of fitting in anywhere, no matter how much he stood out. 

Hosea was a perfect choice. He’d have no problems scoping out and unraveling new jobs throughout the night, the old man arguably even better than Dutch at conning rich folk out of their money. 

At least John seemed just as uncomfortable as Arthur, looking like a fish out of water in that suit, standing amongst the dignified. 

Dutch was already spinning a web when they joined him at the entrance, talking to the man Arthur assumed was the host. 

Brandon Smallcut was a short, stout man, his carefully combed blonde hair framing his round face that just reached Arthur’s shoulders. He was pale, fidgety, and immediately made Arthur feel on edge. It took Arthur a moment to realize he was being stared at.

“Uh, Arthur Callahan,” he greeted quickly when Dutch jabbed him in the ribs. “Nice to meet you, sir.” 

The others had already introduced themselves, and Arthur knew he should have been paying attention to whatever fabricated backstory Dutch had planned this time, but there was something about the shorter man in front of him that Arthur couldn't look away from. It was something in his eyes, the way they lingered, gleaming with something unreadable that sent shivers down Arthur’s spine. 

Brandon smiled, an odd gesture that looked more like an unpleasant leer, briefly taking Arthur’s hand in his. He tried not to jump, managing a smile and accepting the parting handshake. 

“It has been my pleasure,” he said, and Arthur still really didn’t like the way Brandon looked at him. When he looked back to Dutch, Arthur decided that he really didn’t like the way the man was looking at  _ any  _ of them. His stomach twisted uneasily as he tried to meet Dutch’s eye. 

“I look forward to doing business with you,” Brandon said, raising his champagne glass and turning to the front door. “We can talk business later. Enjoy the party, gentlemen.” 

Dutch gave a wave, turning back with a triumphant smile like he’d just single-handedly solved all of their problems in life. Arthur wasn’t so hopeful.  

“You sure about this?” 

Dutch rolled his eyes, shoulder sagging. “What’s the matter  _ now?”  _

“Nothing, I just…” Arthur looked to Hosea, meeting his warning glare, John standing silently beside him. He glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the well-dressed party guests being led inside, Brandon nowhere in sight. “Don’t you think he seemed kind of...creepy? And a little too eager to help a bunch of criminals?”

“Jesus, Arthur, I didn't bring you here to question every little decision I make. Will you have a little faith? This is exactly the opportunity we need. Trust me on this.” 

“Of course I trust  _ you _ ,” Arthur said, lowering his voice as he followed Dutch through the open doors. “I just don’t trust Mr.  _ Smallcut. _ ” 

“Neither do I,” Dutch hissed. “But he’s rich, he likes  _ me,  _ and he’s willing to help. Now stop complaining and go see what you can find.  _ All  _ of you.” 

Hosea sighed as Dutch turned and disappeared into the crowd, and Arthur could only hope his silver tongue wouldn't get them into any more problems tonight. 

“You boys do as he says,” the older man said. “This is a good opportunity, Arthur. Now split up and get to work. See what you can find.  _ Talk  _ to people, for god’s sake.”  

And just like that Arthur was left alone in a crowded living room, the surrounding voices morphing together to create a wordless lull that made his ears ring and his suit feel too tight, the only recognizable presence a fidgeting John Marston standing close enough for their shoulders to brush. 

“Might want to try and look a little more approachable,” Arthur advised, grinning at John’s stiff posture and pinched expression. 

“You’re right,” John said quietly. “Smallcut was...off. Do we...how do we know this isn’t another trap?” 

Arthur shrugged. “Not exactly an ideal place for an arrest. Dutch knows what he’s doing, and Hosea seems to trust it so...look, just go be normal for a few hours. Talk to folk, pretend you don’t live in the forest. You, uh, probably should have invested in a haircut.” 

John was already walking away with an annoyed huff, but Arthur saw his shoulders relax as he disappeared, smiling to himself.   

Arthur sighed, fidgeting with his collar and taking a glass of odd looking champagne when a tray was thrust in front of him. It was revolting, he’d much prefer a bottle of beer beside the campfire, but it made his chest feel a little looser and he began weaving in and out of the crowds of guests. 

Arthur should have been relieved when no one tried to talk to him. He didn't know how to relate to these people, he didn't know about their businesses or their fancy educations or their privileged way of life. 

And as much as he wanted his family to be safe, as much as he wanted their dreams for freedom to come true, Arthur didn’t want to end up like these people. And he wasn’t sure Dutch wanted to either. 

There was a hand on his arm and Arthur jumped, nearly knocking the half-empty glass of champagne from Brandon’s hand. The smaller man stepped back with an amused grin, raising his free hand. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you, Mr. Callahan,” he said, and the cold uneasiness returned. “Enjoying the party?” 

“Uh, yes sir,” Arthur answered, glancing over Brandon’s shoulder to try and catch sight of Hosea or Dutch. “You...have a very nice place here, Mr. Smallcut.” 

Brandon laughed, a dry, breathy sound that Arthur couldn’t pinpoint as genuine or fake. “Not exactly your cup of tea, is it?” 

“Am I that obvious?” 

Brandon smiled, probably an attempt to set Arthur at ease that backfired horribly. His eyes landed on something across the room, a waiter holding a tray of drinks, and he quickly waved them over, draining the rest of his glass. 

“Have a drink with me, Mr. Callahan,” he said, carefully taking the two glasses of champagne. “You’ll feel better if you do, I promise.” 

“I probably shouldn’t--” 

“Mr.  _ Callahan,”  _ Brandon pushed. “It’s a party. I want you to feel  _ relaxed _ . Especially if we’ll be doing business together. Have a drink.” 

Arthur, seeing no reason to refuse, and no Hosea or Dutch to serve as a distraction, relented and accepted the drink, repressing a shudder at the foul aroma. 

“To your success,” Brandon said with a smile, raising his glass and proceeding to empty nearly the entire glass. Arthur followed suit with a few cautious sips, still utterly repulsed by the flavor. 

“Your friend,” Brandon continued, setting his glass down on the table. “He’s...an interesting man.” 

Arthur scoffed. “He’s quite a character, I’ll give him that.” 

“It’s a shame what happened to your ranch,” he said. “Burning down in that fire, leaving you boys with almost nothing. I just hope I can help to get you back on your feet.” 

“You’re...very kind, sir.” Arthur’s tongue was beginning to feel oddly numb, and he wondered just how strong the champagne was. 

Brandon smiled again. “So, how long have you--?” 

“A long time,” Arthur interrupted. He knew he was being rude, that he’d be chewed out by Hosea later, but suddenly the need to get away from the crowd, to find somewhere he could breathe was overwhelming. “Since I was a boy. Sorry, uh, where’s your bathroom?” 

Something flickered across the rich man’s face, something Arthur couldn’t bother to try and decipher as a sickening realization dawned on him, his hands now cold and clammy. 

“Right down that hallway and to the left,” Brandon supplied. He looked Arthur over, critically, his cheerful smile fading to a slight frown. “Are you feeling alright, Mr. Callahan? You’ve gone a bit pale.” 

“I’m fine. Thank you for, uh, for the drink, sir. Great party. Excuse me.” He had already turned away before he stopped talking, nodding as polite as he could to the people he passed as he made his way down the hallway, stopping at the thankfully empty bathroom. He slipped inside, closing and locking the door behind him. 

The bathroom was unreasonably large, and he almost didn't make it all the way to the toilet before he was on his knees, heaving into the polished white bowl, his stomach squeezing and roiling as it pushed up what little it had.

He gripped the edge of the toilet with white knuckles, trying to suck in a breath as the retching stopped,  only to be quickly replaced with dry heaves, his stomach contorting painfully when nothing came up.

The attack lasted another few moments before gradually subsiding, leaving Arthur gasping for breath on the bathroom floor, shaky, sweaty, and disoriented. He leaned against the wall, wrapping one arm around his aching stomach, the other running through his hair. 

What the hell had gotten him so sick? He wasn’t used to alcohol this fancy, but he hadn’t had that much to drink, definitely not enough to make him feel this horrible. 

Arthur worked on gathering his strength, barely managing to make it to his feet using the wall as support. He flushed the toilet, deciding it was stupid that a place for something so disgusting was so extravagant, and made his way to the bathroom door. 

Pain shot through his gut almost immediately, tiny knives dancing across his body, his stomach roiling dangerously. For a moment, Arthur thought he might have to throw up again. He closed his eyes and leaned against the door, waiting for it to pass. 

Something was wrong. As much as he didn’t want to venture back into the crowd, the thought of the suffocating atmosphere only making him feel worse, he needed to find Dutch. 

He paused, shaky hand on the doorknob, reconsidering. 

He knew what Dutch was like in a situation like this. The promise of a new future was in his sights once again, taking up all his concentration, and Arthur knew better than to risk ruining that for him.

Dutch probably hadn’t even noticed Arthur’s prolonged absence from the main room, and he could simply sneak out the back without the man ever realizing. And Arthur, though slightly frustrated, understood. Hosea was right, this was an opportunity they couldn’t afford to miss simply because Arthur wasn’t feeling well. 

He opened the door and stepped into the hall, hoping he didn't look as awful as he felt. He’d find Hosea instead. He’d know what to do, or he’d at least be able to find Arthur a place to sit down until he felt better. The quiet would be worth the scolding he’d no doubt get for interrupting whatever Hosea was currently working on. 

Arthur stopped at the end of the hallway, scanning the guests and trying to ignore the growing pain in his stomach. It wasn’t hard to find Hosea, the older man engaged in an animated conversation with a woman and a man who appeared to be her husband, the discussion littered with fake smiles.  

Arthur opened his mouth to call out to him, already stepping forward, when something wrapped around his neck, pulling him back and cutting off his air. 

He struggled, trying to call out for Hosea, but all that came out was a pathetic gasp as the bulk around his neck tightened. Suddenly there was a gloved hand clamped around his mouth, effectively silencing him completely. 

He was being pulled backwards, deeper into the unfamiliar house, his head pounding and heavy, the pain in his stomach flaring. Arthur thrashed and kicked, shaking his head, desperately trying to dislodge the weight on his neck pressing down relentlessly, but the hold was tight, refusing to budge. 

His vision was darkening, dark spots dancing across his eyes, his arms falling limp at his sides as he felt himself become dead weight, dragged carelessly away from the noise of the party. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Dutch, too stubborn to admit that he had absolutely no idea what any of these people were talking about, simply kept smiling and nodding, trying to pass off like he belonged here among the rich. 

From across the room he met Hosea’s equally exhausted eyes, offering a small, apologetic smile. He caught sight of John at the bar, looking as uncomfortable as Dutch imagined he would be, stuck in what looked like a tedious conversation with a dull looking group of thin white men and their flashy wives. 

And Arthur...was nowhere in sight. 

Dutch frowned, making one more scan of the main room. He wouldn’t blame Arthur for wanting to step out for a while, this was hardly a place he would find comfortable or appealing, and there didn’t seem to be anyone particularly interesting attending tonight. 

Brandon Smallcut was suddenly waving him over, gentle smile plastered on his pale face, and Dutch gratefully excused himself from the group, eager to get this done so they could go home. 

Hosea stayed where he was, brightening visibly at the sight of Dutch finally going after what they were there for. The rich man shook his hand with just as much vigor and enthusiasm as when they’d first arrived. 

“Mr. O’Malley,” he greeted. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself?” 

“I am,” Dutch replied, noticing a shift in the man’s tone. “You have a very lovely place here, Mr. Smallcut.” 

Dutch tore his gaze away to glance over the party once again, looking over his shoulder to scan the minglings crowds of guests before turning back to the man in front of him. 

“Have you seen Ar...Mr. Callahan?” he asked, correcting himself quickly, frowning when Brandon responded with a low chuckle. 

“I spoke to him earlier,” he said. “I...believe your friend had a bit too much to drink, sir. I’m sure he’s just getting some fresh air. Either that or he’s puking his guts up in my bathroom.” 

“Sounds like him.” Dutch let out a gentle laugh, his amusement a bit more forced than the party’s host. “I’m sure he’s just fine.” 

Brandon nodded, and Dutch replenished his grin, momentarily setting Arthur aside to focus on what was in front of him. The sooner they figured something out, the sooner they could get home and have a discussion with Arthur about his drinking habits at places like this. 

“So,” Brandon said, clasping his hands together. “You’re in need of money, and I believe we can help each other. But...if I’m being completely honest with you all this noise is giving me a headache. If I have to listen to Mr. Daniels and his awful wife complain about their liquor business for another second--” 

“I agree,” Dutch said, beyond grateful for the opportunity to get somewhere quiet. Brandon’s smile widened and he turned to the hallway, Dutch following close behind.

The hallway was long and grand, the heavy walls blocking out the droning from the party, and Dutch found himself set at ease as everything grew quieter and quieter. 

The entire house was a dark brown, the rooms formed by dark smooth wood matching the surrounded trees, just visible from the carved glass windows. When it wasn’t plagued with pointless polite conversation, Dutch was sure the place was secluded and peaceful. 

Brandon, however, did not seem peaceful or relaxed in the slightest, and the copious amount of alcohol he’d consumed throughout the night couldn’t be doing him any favors. He seemed jittery and uneasy as they diverged away from the party, and Dutch found himself watching the rich man curiously. 

“Why don’t we step into my study?” Brandon offered. He stopped at the door to his right, pulling it open and stepping aside to let a still smiling Dutch through. As soon as he stepped inside, time seemed to slow. 

The first thing he noticed, was that the study was much smaller than he would have expected. The rest of the house was big and fancy, perfectly matching Brandon’s personality, but his own personal study was simple and almost charming. 

The next thing Dutch noticed, the much more important thing, was that Arthur was being held at gunpoint at the other end of the room. 

He was tied to a chair, ropes bound around his wrists and chest, a gag placed securely in his mouth. There was a man standing behind him, his gun pressed in Arthur’s hair, watching Dutch enter with steely eyes. 

Everything registered in a second, time speeding up again when the door slammed shut behind him, Brandon letting out a shuddering breath. 

“I’m sorry,” the rich man said before Dutch could even gather his thoughts. “I-I’m-they made me! They  _ made  _ me, they-they...I-I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Please! Not in my home.” 

Of course Brandon would only be worried about his own house and perfect reputation, not about Arthur’s life hanging in the balance right in front of him. Dutch did everything he could to push down his rage, keeping his cool for Arthur’s sake. Losing it now would only put them both in more danger. 

“Dutch Van der Linde,” the man with the gun said, his words like a bucket of ice. Of course it was a setup, Brandon had known who they were since the beginning. He should have known something like this was too good to be true. “I’m here to bring you in.” 

Dutch remained still, expressionless. The weight of his gun on his belt was a constant presence, a lifeline, Brandon and his servants too stupid and careless to check him for weapons. 

“I believe,” Dutch started, speaking slowly, aware that everything out of his mouth would be utterly pointless. “You have the wrong man.” 

The man smirked. “I don’t think so, Van der Linde. You’ve got quite a price on your head, and it don’t matter what state you’re in. Now get on your knees before I put a bullet in him.” 

Arthur made a muffled, incomprehensible sound from behind the gag, pulling uselessly at the ropes. The man wrapped one hand around the side of Arthur’s head, holding him against the barrel of the gun, and Arthur fell silent as the weapon was cocked. 

Dutch swallowed, control faltering. “There’s no need to get innocents involved. This is between you and me. Let that man go and we can talk.” 

“So this  _ ain’t  _ Arthur Morgan?” the man asked, tightening his hold on the weapon. “Van der Linde’s most trusted?” 

“Never seen him before,” Dutch said. 

“Really?” Slowly, the gun was moved across Arthur’s face until it was securely positioned under his chin, the man watching Dutch with an amused smile. “So, you don’t mind if I put him out of his misery?”

In another situation, Dutch would have encouraged him to take the shot. The smartest thing to do would be to convince the man that Dutch didn’t know Arthur, didn’t care whether the stranger lived or died. He’d go off the assumption that taking an innocent life was too great a toll, or causing a scene in a crowded house like this was too great a risk.

But looking at the man before him, obviously a bounty hunter, cold and experienced, Dutch knew he would have no problem shooting Arthur without hesitation whether he was innocent or not. And, if a cowering Brandon was anything to go by, he didn't care who saw.  

“Nobody has to die,” was the gentle response Dutch finally landed on, tense, praying the man was smart enough to keep them both alive. “I’ll cooperate. Just put the gun away.” 

He shifted his gaze to meet Arthur’s eyes, to silently assure him they would be fine, and to give himself the console of knowing that Arthur understood.  

But Arthur wasn’t meeting his gaze, instead looking straight ahead, blinking rapidly, and Dutch was immediately alert, scanning for any injuries he’d missed. 

There was an angry looking red mark across his neck, probably the aftermath of how he’d been taken down. His breathing was quick and almost panicked, his face pale, but Dutch could hardly blame him with the gun pressed against his jaw. 

Suddenly the weapon was gone, the man waving it in the air as he gestured at Dutch. “Get on your knees.  _ Now. _ ” 

“Ok,” Dutch said calmly, moving his focus to the weapon on his belt as he lowered himself to one knee. He kept his eyes on the bounty hunter as he started forward, gun held at his side. “Whatever you say.” 

There was a split second opportunity when the bounty hunter reached for his rope, the gun held at an angle just low enough for Dutch to make his move. 

The bounty hunter was fast, but Dutch was faster, his gun out of its holster and firing two shots into the man’s stomach before his opponent’s finger was even on the trigger. 

The bounty hunter hit the ground with a hollow thud and Dutch scrambled to his feet. The reaction from the guests down the hall was immediate, panicked screams filling the room, shouting echoing down the hallway. 

Brandon Smallcut was still trembling in the corner, gaping in horror, his face white as a sheet. Dutch turned on him, using up all his remaining self-control to not shoot the man right here in his own study. 

“How many are there?” he demanded, and Brandon went impossibly whiter. 

“Wh-what do--?” 

“How many  _ men  _ are after us? Who else is with him?” Dutch used his gun to point at the bloody body on the previously spotless floor, the bounty hunter still twitching as he died. 

“F-four,” Brandon stammered. “Th-there-there were three others, I mean. I dont...I-I didn’t see the others tonight, but-but they're probably not far. Th-they  _ made  _ me bring you here, I...I-I didn't have a choice, I swear!”  

Dutch just scoffed, decided the coward wasn’t even worth wasting a bullet, and slipped his gun back in his holster. “Get out there and deal with your guests. _ No one  _ comes in here. Understand me?” 

Brandon nodded frantically, wisely keeping his mouth shut as he pulled the door open and scurried into the hall. 

Dutch wasted no more time, ignoring the bounty hunter and racing across the room to Arthur, skidding a stop beside the chair. He started tugging on the ropes tied around his wrists, changing course and reaching for the tightly wound gag when he heard Arthur try to speak. 

He didn't have his knife with him, but he managed to tear through the cloth, pulling it from Arthur’s mouth and casting it aside. 

_ “Dutch.”  _

“Damn bastard,” Dutch snarled, already working furiously at the rest of the bonds. “Setting us up, getting you used as  _ leverage _ .” One of the ropes around his wrist came undone, and Arthur moved a hand to tug at the binding around his chest, his hands shaking. “What kind of sick--” 

_ “Dutch,”  _ Arthur said again, more desperate this time, just as his other arm came free. Dutch tugged relentlessly at the last rope, desperate to be able to give Arthur his full attention. “I-I’m...I don’t…” 

“What?” Dutch pressed gently. “Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?” 

Arthur shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I...I think they put something in my drink.” 

Dutch clenched his jaw, Arthur’s shivering now painfully obvious. “Oh, god. Ok, alright, you’re fine. Just hang tight.” 

The rope finally loosened its hold, the knot coming undone. Arthur swallowed as the tightness around his chest was pulled away, and Dutch noted the sheen of sweat now coating his forehead. 

“Come on,” Dutch said, throwing one of Arthur’s arms over his shoulders, pulling him off the chair. “Let’s get you to--”

They had barely taken one step before Dutch was being roughly shoved to the side, Arthur collapsing to his knees, his body wracked with a sudden spell of dry heaves, the shivering growing worse. 

Dutch was at his side in a second, rubbing circles along his back as they waited for it to pass, Arthur groaning weakly when he could muster the strength.

“Arthur--” 

“They put something in my drink,” Arthur said again, and Dutch’s heart ached at how young and scared he sounded. 

“They sedated you?” Dutch asked, frowning when Arthur shook his head, wrapping an arm protectively around his stomach.

“ _ No, _ ” Arthur said, panicked eyes finally meeting Dutch. “They-they put...Dutch something’s  _ wrong _ .” 

Dutch’s heart sank and he nodded, biting back his rising panic. Arthur swallowed, looking determined not to be sick again, but Dutch was sure he’d gone a shade paler in the last few seconds. 

Carefully, he lead Arthur back until he was laying against the floor, looking pained and miserable, watching Dutch blankly. 

“I need you to wait here,” Dutch said, hating the idea as soon as it left his mouth. “I’m going to get Hosea, alright? He’ll be able to help you.” 

He didn't miss the flash of fear that seeped into the misery in Arthur’s eyes, and Dutch had to force himself to look away, knowing he didn’t have a choice. 

“Dutch, don’t--” 

“Arthur, I  _ have  _ to,” Dutch said, rising to his feet before Arthur could try and convince him otherwise. “Two minutes, that’s it. Stay right where you are. I’ll be back, I promise.” 

He didn't even give Arthur the chance to nod, already stepping over the body of the bounty hunter and hurrying out of the room, breaking into a run when he reached the hallway. 

The main room was in chaos. Some of the guests were gathering their coats and bags and streaming out the front doors, others were standing around demanding answers. Brandon Smallcut was standing at the front of the room, shorter than all of them, desperately trying to keep the fleeting peace. 

“Hosea!” Dutch bellowed, officially throwing caution to the wind, quieting the crowd to a confused murmur. “ _ Hosea?”  _

It couldn't have been more than a few second before Hosea was pushing through the crowd to get to him, John trailing behind, but to Dutch it felt like hours. Too long to leave Arthur alone and hurting. 

“What’s going on?” Hosea asked, low and gentle, aware of the crowds. He was always a calming presence, even at times like this, always Dutch’s rock. 

John, however, was a frantic mess, and he was threatening to send Dutch into a panic. 

“We heard gunshots, what the hell is happening?” he demanded, looking over Dutch’s shoulder at the now quiet hallway. “Where’s Arthur?” 

“Hosea, come with me,” Dutch said, taking the older man’s arm and practically dragging him forward. “John, help Smallcut keep everyone calm. Get them out. Keep them  _ away  _ from the study.” 

“Dutch, where’s Arthur?” John asked again, desperate, angry, and Dutch could feel his resolve cracking. 

“Do as I  _ say,  _ son,” he snapped, feeling Hosea’s eyes on him. “Please, John. We need these people calm.” 

John hesitated, worried eyes wavering before finally landing on Dutch. He must have seen the silent pleading, Dutch’s own desperation, because he nodded and turned back to the crowd. 

Dutch retreated back to the silent hallway, heart heavy with dread, Hosea following behind him, silent. 

The panic of the party gradually faded, everything around them cast aside, unimportant, and the voices silenced completely as the two men stepped back into the study.


	3. Chapter 3

Dutch had left him. 

A part of him, the quiet part of his mind that was struggling to keep him from panicking, knew that wasn’t true. Dutch wouldn’t abandon him here, he’d said something about going to find help. He’d promised to return. At least, Arthur thought he had. It was hard to focus on anything besides the blinding pain his gut. 

For a second, when it only continued to steadily grow worse and worse, Arthur thought he might have been stabbed, confused when he couldn’t see any blood on his clammy hands.  

He couldn't remember where he was, glancing wildly around the unfamiliar room, eyes landing on the puddle of blood a few paces away. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t his own, tracing it back to the now lifeless body of a stranger, the man who had held a gun to his head. The calm part of his brain lost its hold, sending him into a mindless panic, merging with the stabbing pain and leaving him in nothing but agony. 

He tried to move, to get as far away from the corpse as he could, but it only worsened the pain and he heard himself cry out.  

It hurt to breathe. Arthur could only pull in quick, uneven gasps, arching off the floor as the pain grew insufferably worse with each one. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold his breath, trapped in the achingly silent room where he’d been abandoned. 

“Arthur!” 

And suddenly there were voices, breaking through the suffocating cloud of heavy silence. They were familiar, nearby, but Arthur couldn't pinpoint them, his mind trapped in a haze.  

“Arthur, try to breathe.” 

Hosea? He sounded close, worried, and Arthur tried to do as he instructed, hating the small whimper that escaped when he sucked in a breath. 

“That’s it, Arthur. Try and relax.” 

And that was Dutch, hovering somewhere above him, and the relief in knowing that he’d come back, that Arthur hadn’t been left behind did something to lessen his panic. But he couldn’t relax, no matter how much it sounded like Dutch wanted him to. 

There was a hand on his stomach and Arthur jumped, crying out again when the movement felt like someone digging a knife deeper into his gut, ripping open his skin. But the hand remained where it was, gently trying to push him back down to the floor.

His head was elevated, and it took him a moment to realize he was resting against Dutch’s leg. There was a hand on his forehead, cold but comforting against his burning skin. Hosea was still pressing against his stomach, furrowing his brow, occasionally glancing up at Arthur’s face. 

“Hosea?” Dutch pressed. He was doing his best to keep his voice steady and relaxed, no doubt for Arthur’s sake, but he could hear just how worried Dutch was pretending not to be. 

“We need to get him to a doctor,” Hosea said, not bothering to even try and mask his unease. The pressure on Arthur’s stomach was gone, and the pain immediately spiked. “I don’t know...I’m not sure what it is, but if we get him proper help he should be fine.” He sounded hopeful but unsure, but his word had always been good enough for Dutch. 

“Let’s get out of here then. You and--” 

“ _ You  _ and John,” Hosea intercepted. “Go and get the horses ready. I need to stay with him and keep an eye on his breathing.” 

Dutch hesitated, and if Arthur had the strength he would have told Dutch to hurry up so they could get the hell out of this awful room. 

Finally Dutch relented, and Arthur’s head was carefully moved to the floor. “Hang in there,” he said, quiet, once again gone before Arthur could respond.

Hosea’s hand wrapped around his wrist, fingers pressing into his skin, checking his pulse. His frown wasn’t surprising, Arthur could feel his heart pounding uncomfortably fast.

“Arthur?” Hosea’s voice was soft as he scooted closer, letting Arthur meet his gaze without moving. “Can you tell me what hurts?” 

“Everything,” Arthur mumbled, wincing when the sharp pain continued to ruthlessly tug at his insides. “M...m’ stomach--” he gasped as it worsened in a flash. “ _ God... _ Hosea…” 

Arthur reached out and Hosea took his hand, squeezing gently as Arthur rode out the new wave of agony. He was arching up off the floor again, gripping Hosea’s hand so hard it probably hurt. The older man was using his free arm to try and push Arthur back down, muttering gentle reassurances.

Through the sound of his own labored breathing, Arthur heard the study’s door open, followed by two pairs of frantic footsteps.

“The horses are gone!” 

That was John’s voice, angry and scared, and Arthur did everything he could to push down the pain and get ahold of himself. It didn’t work, only succeeding in letting out another pained gasp.  

“What-- _ Arthur?” _

“The horses are being guarded,” Dutch explained, quickly cutting off John’s concerns. “More bounty hunters are coming, we’ll have to find another way out.”

“There’s a back door down the hall,” Hosea said, pulling his hand away. “If we move fast we might be able to get into the forest, but…” 

Arthur, aware he was being stared at, quickly got to work on propping himself up on his elbows. “I can walk,” he insisted, highly doubting it, but determined to at least try. 

He could hear John still asking questions, Dutch offering a brief explanation, but it was all drowned out by his own beating heart, the blood rushing in his ears, and the sudden urge to vomit again. 

Hosea was steadying him, taking his arm as Arthur worked on finding his footing. Dutch was suddenly crouched in front of him, his gaze offering silent encouragement. 

There was another presence at his other side, John letting Arthur balance against him as he stood.

“I can--” 

“Shut up, Arthur,” John snapped, any malice turned meaningless by the worry laced in his voice. “We have to go.” 

Arthur nodded, swallowing against the nausea, managing to stand on wobbly legs with the support of the two men at his sides. Dutch stood along with him, looking like he wanted to do more, instead taking out his gun and moving to the door to scope out the hallway. 

“Just keep breathing, Arthur,” Hosea instructed as they started forward, each clumsy step sending a new jolt of agony through his gut. If he could, Arthur would have informed him that breathing only made it worse. “We’re almost there.” 

Arthur knew it was a blatant lie. Getting back to camp would take all night, and the nearest town was at least a couple miles away. 

“It’s quieting down,” Dutch said as Arthur was lead into the hall. He did his best to walk on his own, but it was growing harder to fight against the knives being sewn into his stomach. “You’re doing good, Arthur. Just keep moving.” 

Arthur didn’t even nod, all his attention focused on staying upright, his head growing heavier with each step forward. He was aware of John’s eyes constantly on him, the grip on his arm almost more painful than his stomach. 

He was suddenly hit by a gust of cold air, the night’s breeze beating against his sweat-soaked skin. He took a breath, the desperation to be out of the stuffy house overwhelming, and the pain that followed was so intense it made his knees buckle. He nearly fell face first into the grass as he temporarily lost his balance. 

“Arthur!” John was shouting, too loud, his voice tearing through the haze around Arthur’s mind with a new burst of pain. “Jesus. Dutch! We need to stop, he’s--” 

“I’m  _ fine,”  _ Arthur insisted, his voice enough to give away that he wasn’t. But he was determined not to slow them down. He couldn’t be the reason they didn’t get out of this. 

“Is there a stream close by?” Hosea asked. He and John were supporting most of Arthur’s weight by now as he tried to remember how to move his legs. The pain wasn’t letting up, only continuing to get progressively worse. 

“Up in those trees I think,” Dutch answered. 

“That’s where we’re going,” Hosea said. “He needs to rest and he needs to stay hydrated. Then we can talk about what we’re doing.” 

There were no arguments as they continued forward, Arthur regaining what little balance he had, baring most of his own weight again, but the hold the others had on him never loosened. 

They kept moving through the grass, eventually reaching the treeline, cutting off the silver glow of the moonlight. The air seemed to grow colder and Arthur’s shivering grew worse, despite how uncomfortably warm he still felt. 

After what felt like hours of the agonizing journey, Arthur thought he heard the gentle roar of running water and finally felt John and Hosea slow their pace. 

“You still with us?” Hosea asked. 

Arthur managed a weak nod. “Unfortunately.” 

“You’ll be able to rest soon. John, help me set him down here. Keep him close to the water.” 

There was a broken tree trunk beside the stream, its roots weaving in and out of the small stream, and Arthur was slowly guided into a sitting position until he was leaning back against the bark. 

He didn't even get a moment to close his eyes before Hosea’s hand was back on his shoulder, the older man quietly instructing him to drink. 

It was another painful process, Arthur fighting against the discomfort of leaning towards the water, Hosea keeping a steady hand on his back. He managed to drink a few mouthfuls from his hands, swallowing proving to be a more painful feat than walking. 

It was hardly worth the effort, the water sitting uncomfortably in his stomach for a good three minutes before Arthur found himself hunched over, throwing it back up in painful heaves, panicked reassurances from the others lost on his ringing ears. 

“S-so much f-for that,” Arthur said shakily when the retching finally subsided. “S-sorry.” 

“Not your fault,” Dutch said. “You’re doing good, Arthur. Real good. Just stay strong for me. We’ll get you help as soon as we can.” 

Arthur gave another nod, the only response he could manage, wrapping his arms around his stomach and shutting his eyes. 

“We need to get him into town,” Hosea said. “He needs a doctor, Dutch. A  _ real  _ doctor.”  

“I  _ know _ ,” Dutch shot back. He sounded exhausted, his mind racing. “But they’ll have Smallcut’s place surrounded. We can’t risk getting the horses tonight.” 

“So you want to go on foot?” Hosea asked, incredulous. “Dutch, look at him. He can’t make it that far, he can barely stand.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Arthur, shut up,” John said. “We don’t have a choice, Hosea. Getting ourselves caught won’t do him any good. We’ll just...have to get as far as we can.” 

The forest fell silent, Hosea knowing better than to waste any more energy trying to argue. Arthur, slowly working on getting the pain under control, found himself listening to the surrounding cricket’s songs, the scurrying of small animals exploring the night, and the comforting hum of the stream beside him. The melodic harmony of the forest did nothing for his pain or racing heart, but it helped to slowly calm his breathing.

Dutch suddenly spoke up, his voice almost a whisper, like he didn't want Arthur to hear. “Do you know if...if he’ll be...is...is it going to kill him, Hosea?”

Arthur waited, listening, trying to keep the panic from setting in once again. Hosea sighed, shifting against the grass. 

“I have no idea,” he admitted. “I don’t know what  _ it  _ is. But...like I said, if we get him to a doctor fast enough they might be able to do something.” 

“Alright,” Dutch said, and Arthur peeled his eyes open when he heard him begin to stand. “We better get moving then. Arthur?” 

“I’m ready,” Arthur lied, holding his breath as he slowly sat up. John crouched beside him, keeping him steady. Arthur, seeing no other option, reached for him, and John quickly got to work on helping Arthur stand.

“You good?” John asked quietly, and Arthur nodded. 

“I’m good,”  he muttered, taking an experimental step towards Dutch, who offered a small smile. “Thanks.” 

The group started forward, Hosea in front, claiming he knew the quickest route. Arthur was careful to keep his breaths shallow, the few minutes of rest giving him a bit of relief. It didn’t make moving any easier. 

“I’ll walk with him,” Dutch said. “You take the rear for now. Keep an eye out for anyone tailing us. They’ll realize we got away eventually.” 

John nodded, reluctantly releasing his hold on Arthur to pull out his gun, falling behind, already scanning the silent treeline. 

Arthur did his best to walk by himself, determined not to be any more of a burden than he already was, but he only managed a few steps before Dutch was wrapping one arm around his shoulder, letting Arthur lean into him as they walked together. 

“How bad is it?” Dutch asked once John was out of earshot. It was said quiet, meant for Arthur’s ears only, the first bit of real fear leaking into his calm facade. 

“It’s uh…” Arthur paused, swallowing again when a new wave of burning pain spread through his abdomen. “It’s not great.” 

Dutch nodded, clenching his jaw, his eyes flickering with emotions Arthur couldn't even begin to read. 

“You’ll be ok,” Dutch said, his words somewhere in between a promise and a stubborn proclamation. “You hear me? You’re going to be just fine. You can make it, Arthur, it’s not that far. You aren’t going to die.” 

And even if Dutch would never admit it, even if he didn’t realize, he was scared and desperate and the determined mantra was more for his sake than for Arthur’s. 

But hearing how much Dutch needed him to hold on, knowing how hard he was willing to fight to get them to safety gave Arthur a new burst of strength. He fought against the worsening pain with new vigor, following Hosea through the silent forest. 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Dutch had done his best not to crowd Arthur, seeing how determined he was to walk on his own, silently fighting through the pain as they stubbornly kept moving. 

But Arthur was visibly deteriorating, gradually leaning against Dutch’s side more and more until he was practically being dragged across the forest. He was still doing his best to walk on his own, despite the way he stumbled, no longer able to stifle the gasps of pain each breath inevitably turned into. 

Dutch wanted to slow down, wanted to let Arthur have at least a few minutes of much needed rest, but he knew that each second Arthur went without help was just making the pain worse, putting him in more danger. 

When this was over, when Arthur was safe, Dutch was going to march back here and kill every single bounty hunter who had tracked them here. And then he was going to kill Brandon Smallcut for simply stepping aside and letting it happen. 

Hosea kept glancing over his shoulder, looking increasingly worried each time, and it was doing nothing but threaten to cause Dutch’s internal panic to surface. 

Dutch felt Arthur slipping in his hold, and he carefully tried to shift Arthur’s weight so he was more comfortably resting against Dutch’s side as they walked. He regretted it immediately when Arthur went stiff, letting out an awful cry, pitching forward as he lost what little balance he still had. 

_ “Dutch,”  _ Arthur croaked as Dutch shot out to catch him, letting Arthur rest against his chest as he guided them both to the ground. The shaking had only gotten worse, his eyes glassy and unfocused, his hair soaked with sweat. He said Dutch’s name again, barely sounding awake, and it took every ounce of control for Dutch not to lose it right here and now. 

“We’re stopping,” he announced. He was aware of Hosea and John watching him, but he couldn't bring himself to look away from Arthur. “One of you keep watch.” 

“Dutch,” Hosea said, careful, like he could see how fragile Dutch had suddenly become. “We have to keep going--” 

“We’re taking a goddamn  _ break,  _ Hosea!” Dutch shouted, hating himself when it caused Arthur to flinch against him. “Sorry. I’m-I’m sorry. But...look at him. He needs a minute.” 

Hosea hesitated, but only briefly. His gaze rested sorrowfully on a drained Arthur, pale and trembling, and the older man’s shoulders dropped. 

“Ok,” he relented. “Just for a minute. Stay with him, see if there’s any relief. I’ll...I’ll keep watch.” 

“Hosea,” Dutch called, and the older man stopped, his back already turned. “He’s going to be alright. We’re doing everything we can.” 

Hosea, the toll of the night making him look at least ten years older, said nothing, only removing his gun from its holster and starting for the trees. Dutch knew he was right, they couldn't afford to stay put, but if a few minutes of rest offered Arthur even a small amount of relief he was willing to take the risk.

It didn’t seem to be having the desired effect, however, the shivering growing worse, more and more violent with each passing second. His breathing was becoming frantic, each breath looking like agony. 

“Arthur?” John suddenly asked, alarmed. “Arthur, you hear me?  _ Arthur?  _ You need to calm down, Ar-- _ Dutch _ ?” 

Arthur’s breath was hitching in his throat, desperate choking gasps escaping through his chattering teeth. His face was twisted in pain, legs scraping against the dirt as he fought against the pain, his cloudy eyes widening as he struggled to breathe. 

“Arthur!” John yelled again, like he would somehow be able to snap Arthur out of the attack. “Dutch? What do we do?” 

And Dutch could only sit there, Arthur convulsing in his arms. His mind went on lockdown, completely blank, because he didn’t know. For the first time in a long time, he had no plan, no idea what to do, no clue how to help. 

“Get Hosea,” he said. He had no idea if Hosea would even be able to help, if there was anything more they could even do, but it was the only thing coming to his panicked mind. He needed Hosea here, the older man’s presence the only thing keeping him sane. There was nothing else that could keep him together while Arthur could be dying right in front of him. “ _ Hurry,  _ John!” 

John was already on his feet, casting one last wary glance at Arthur before disappearing in the direction Hosea had gone off in. Dutch didn’t bother watching him go, immediately turning back to Arthur, trying to get his unfocused eyes to lock onto him. 

“Arthur,” he tried, unable to keep his voice from shaking. “I’m right here, Arthur. I need you to look at me. Look at me, Arthur. I’m right here.” 

He didn’t seem to hear, and Dutch carefully reached for Arthur’s jaw, trying to guide his gaze in the right direction. 

Arthur lurched as soon as Dutch’s fingers grazed his skin. He pulled away desperately, shoving and kicking at Dutch, fighting blindly, succeeding only worsening his pain, his cries growing louder with each movement. 

“Arthur!” Dutch grabbed Arthur’s wrists, trying to keep him still. Arthur continued to fight, his head slamming against Dutch’s chest. “It’s me, Arthur. It’s  _ me.  _ You have to stop, you’re going to hurt yourself.  _ Arthur.”  _

“Dutch,” Arthur croaked, the first comprehensible thing he’d said in over an hour. But Dutch’s spark of hope quickly died when he realized it was said out of desperate confusion, not recognition. “Dutch!” 

“Right here,” Dutch said, pleading for Arthur to hear him. “I’m right here, son. Can you hear me? I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Dutch?” Arthur said again, breathy and scared, his wobbly voice tearing at Dutch’s already aching heart. “C...come back... _ Dutch.  _ I-I need... _ ”  _

He didn't know where he was, didn’t realize he wasn’t alone, how desperately Dutch was trying to do everything he could to lessen the pain. Dutch just squeezed Arthur’s hand, fighting against his trembling. 

“I didn’t go anywhere,” he said. “I’m here Arthur. I’m  _ right  _ here. Look at me, Arthur.  _ Look  _ at me.” 

And finally,  _ finally,  _ something seemed to clear in Arthur’s eyes. He blinked, his struggles slowing, and Dutch waited as Arthur gradually met his gaze. 

“Dutch?” It wasn’t the delirious begging this time, Arthur finally able to register his surroundings, and Dutch let out a shaky breath. 

“It’s me,” he promised, squeezing Arthur’s hand again. “Just keep breathing, Arthur. Keep your eyes on me and breathe. We’re almost there.” 

Arthur swallowed and his brow furrowed, like he was struggling to hear what Dutch was saying. The connection Dutch had managed was weak, the eye contact held together by a thread, but he was determined to keep it. 

“Dutch,” Arthur said again. He almost sounded like a child again, lost and confused. “I don’t I...I don’t-I  _ can’t--”  _

“Yes you can,” Dutch argued. “You can make it Arthur. Just a little bit farther now. Just keep going, alright? You’re going to make it.” 

Arthur looked like he was going to say something, working on building up the strength to respond. Dutch leaned closer, hopeful, but the quiet words never came. 

“He ain’t looking so good.” 

Dutch went rigid at the sound of the new voice, cold and mocking, the stranger sounding incredibly pleased with himself. He refused to look away from Arthur, terrified of breaking the connection he’d worked so hard to build, but it wasn't hard to guess who had found them. 

Arthur didn’t react, he probably still didn't realize that there was someone else watching them. Heavy footsteps filled the quiet forest air, moving closer, and Dutch protectively tightened his hold on Arthur. 

“It’s over, Van der Linde,” the bounty hunter said. “I don't have to kill you if you cooperate. Now, why don’t  _ you  _ look at  _ me? _ ” 

Dutch didn’t move, gaze still locked on Arthur’s confused eyes, the younger man weakly clutching Dutch’s sleeve with his free hand.

“Dutch,” Hosea’s voice said, soft and apologetic, and Dutch’s shoulders fell, defeated, and he tore his eyes away, raising his head to meet the bounty hunter. 

There were three of them, the closest standing just a few feet away, shotgun aimed at Dutch’s head. The second was a few paces behind, guarding Hosea, who stood silently with his arms held out at his sides. The third was pacing the treeline, scanning the darkness, and it took Dutch a moment to realize that John was nowhere in sight. 

None of them even seemed aware that there was a missing fourth, and he met Hosea’s knowing eyes. 

“What did you do to him?” Dutch demanded, risking a glance back down. He spoke low and cold, refusing to give away just how rattled he had become. 

“No idea,” the bounty hunter answered, nonchalant, like Arthur’s life wasn’t hanging in the balance. “Not my idea. Maybe you shouldn't have killed my friend.” 

Dutch took a breath, steadying himself, wondering how long John needed to make a move. He watched the bounty hunter with steely eyes, the other man just smiling. 

“Put your weapons on the ground,” he instructed. “Do as I say, Van der Linde. Don’t make me shoot you.” 

Dutch, aware of Hosea’s eyes on him, didn't make a move to obey. “My friend needs help. He needs a doctor.” 

“Your  _ friend, _ ” the bounty hunter spat, taking another step forward. “Needs to be in a jail cell. Either the poison will kill him or the rope will. Your call.” 

Arthur was moving, his breathing growing quick and agitated again. Dutch, eyes glued to the bounty hunter, could only keep clutching his hand. 

“Dutch?” Arthur called in between ragged gasps, and Dutch could only silently hope Arthur knew he was still here. “Dutch...what...where--?” 

“Will you shut him  _ up?"  _ The bounty hunter snarled. His weapon’s aim suddenly lowered to a trembling Arthur, and Dutch’s blood went cold. 

“He’s sick,” he explained frantically, trying to talk over Arthur’s delirious murmurs. “He doesn’t know what’s happening, he’s--” 

Suddenly the bounty hunter was in front of him, grabbing Arthur roughly and yanking him out of Dutch’s hold. He threw him to the ground and Arthur screamed, eyes squeezing shut as he tried to curl up on his side. 

“Don’t touch him!” It was more of a beg than a threat, but Dutch no longer cared how desperate or weak he sounded. “We’ll cooperate. We’ll do whatever you say, just leave him alone. He’s hurt.  _ Please. _ ” 

The men watched as Dutch, keeping his eyes trained on the weapon pointed at Arthur, took his own gun from his belt and tossed it aside, passively raising his hands. 

“He’ll slow us down,” the other man said from where he stood beside Hosea. “He’ll die anyway, let’s just get it over with.” 

“I will  _ carry  _ him if I goddamn have to,” Dutch snapped. “You want me to come quietly? Let my friend live. He deserves a chance.” 

If anything, the bounty hunter only looked amused. He glanced from Arthur, back to Dutch, carefully pointing his gun to the sky.  

“Alright, Van der Linde,” he said. “If you insi--” 

He never got the chance to finish as Arthur kicked out, his boot hitting the bounty hunter’s knee with a sickening crack. He tumbled to the ground and Arthur kept thrashing, fighting furiously against a threat he didn't understand. If Dutch hadn't been so terrified, he would have been proud. 

The other two men reacted instantly, raising their weapons. Hosea tensed when a shot rang out, the bounty hunter beside him falling to the ground as John emerged from the treeline, gun in hand. 

Dutch dove for cover behind a tree, hoping Hosea would have the sense to do the same, scanning the grass for his discarded weapon. There was a flicker of silver, his eyes landing on the barrel of his gun just as more shots rang out. 

He took the risk, leaving his cover and lunging for the ground. He wrapped his hands around the handle, bringing it up, firing at the second bounty hunter. The bullet buried into the man’s forehead, and he died still standing, gun raised at John. 

Dutch didn't even give himself time to think, turning back to where Arthur was still grappling with the last remaining bounty hunter. 

It was a woefully uneven fight, Dutch was sure an angry Jack Marston could have overpowered Arthur in his current state. The bounty hunter grabbed his shirt and slammed him into the ground, emitting an awful sounding yelp of agony. 

He pressed down on Arthur’s throat, grinning when the already weak thrashing slowed into a frantic fit of struggling, eyes widening in his desperation. 

Dutch raised his gun, shaking with newly awakened rage. But John was closer, advancing on the man before he had the chance to fire. 

Dutch didn't think he’d ever seen anyone so angry, John letting out an almost animalistic yell as he grabbed the bounty hunter and practically tore him off Arthur, throwing him to the ground and slamming a fist in his face. 

The bounty hunter’s mouth fell open in surprise, clearly too absorbed in tormenting a defenseless man to realize there was a fourth attacker to worry about. 

The fight was nothing but a blur, the man managing to wrestle a knife from his belt, John just able to block the blade from slashing across his face. He, unfortunately, ended up blocking it with his arm, the silver tip tearing through his clothes and sinking into his skin. 

There was another gunshot and Dutch jumped, eyes flying to the other end of the forest. Hosea, having had a better angle to take the shot, lowered his newly retrieved gun and hurried forward, ignoring the fresh corpses. 

John shoved the now bloody body of the last bounty hunter away. He pulled himself to his feet, holding his arm to his chest to stop the blood flow. 

“Let me see,” Hosea ordered, slipping his gun back into its holster. He reached out a hand, but John stepped away, shaking his head. 

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Just a scratch.” 

Dutch, upon observing that John was strong enough to at least stand by himself, turned his attention back to Arthur, dropping to his knees.

Arthur’s eyes were wide and panicked, his gasps overtaken by a fit of jagged coughs. He was clawing at his throat, kicking out against the air, and Dutch realized that Arthur still believed he was being strangled. 

Dutch, hesitating for only a second, put his hands on Arthur’s shoulder, trying to hold him steady. Arthur jumped, only hurting himself further, fighting against the new presence. But Dutch didn't pull away, tightening his hold, needing Arthur to see him again. 

“It’s ok,” he promised, searching Arthur’s eyes for any sign of recognition. “Arthur, listen to me.  _ Listen  _ to me. I’m right here, Arthur. He’s gone. You’re safe. You can breathe, Arthur, please, just  _ breathe.  _ Listen to my voice, son. Look at me, I’m right here.” 

And Arthur heard him, his rapid blinking slowing, finally turning his head to once again meet Dutch’s eyes, some of the panic melting away as their gazes met, Dutch doing all he could to keep them both calm. 

But Arthur still couldn’t breathe, the fear returning with a vengeance as the chokes and gasps only continued, quickly growing worse. Arthur gaped silently, grabbing Dutch’s shirt, silently pleading for help. 

Hosea was suddenly beside him, prying Arthur’s hands out of the cloth of Dutch’s suit. He cupped a hand around the back of Arthur’s neck, guiding him into a sitting position, rubbing his back in between his shoulder blades. 

“Arthur?” Hosea asked softly, nodding to himself when the elevation lessened the gasps to a panicked hyperventilation. He glanced at Dutch, jaw set, eyes unreadable. “Keep talking to him.”

Dutch didn't need the instruction, already scooting closer so Arthur could rest against his shoulder. John hovered close by, awkward and unsure, and Dutch’s chest felt warm at the blatant worry the younger couldn’t even try to hide. 

“Arthur, you hear me?” Dutch asked, smiling when Arthur gave a weak nod. “Good. I need you to breathe, alright? You’re safe now. Just try and breathe.” 

Slowly, Arthur’s breathing became somewhat normal, slowing considerably after a few terrifying moments. It was still quick and shallow, each breath making Arthur wince, but he was getting air, and at the moment that was all Dutch cared about. 

“John?” Arthur called, shaky and quiet, stiffening as if realizing for the first time he couldn't see the younger man. John dropped to a crouch in front of him, Hosea’s jacket wrapped around his bleeding arm. 

“Yeah, Arthur?” 

Arthur blinked, turning his head away from Dutch, looking like he was struggling to focus on the new face in front of him. His glassy eyes dropped to the blood-soaked cloth, his brows furrowing.

“You...you ok?” He sounded so weak, just barely holding on, and here he was, still worrying over someone else. Dutch’s throat felt tight.

John gave a watery smile, looking as shaken as Dutch felt. He nodded, and Hosea squeezed Arthur’s shoulder. 

“I’m good,” John assured, speaking slow so Arthur would understand. “We all are. We’re all fine. And you will be too.” 

“Dutch,” Hosea said warily. It was killing him to be the voice of reason, to be the one to levelly observe and bare the news, and Dutch didn’t know if he would have made it this far without him. “I...I don’t know how much longer he can go on.” 

Arthur wasn’t even aware enough to argue, still sluggishly blinking in John’s direction, trying to get ahold of his surroundings. 

“What if they have horses?” John suggested, brightening. “They caught up to us pretty fast, they might have hitched them nearby.” 

“Let’s hope so.” Hosea was already on his feet, John following with a lingering glance. “You’re ok to--?” 

“I’ll stay with him,” Dutch said. He wasn't leaving Arthur alone again. “Go find those horses. Hurry.” 

They didn't waste any more time, Hosea and John hurrying off in the direction the bounty hunters had come, disappearing under the forest’s dark veil. 

As soon as they were gone, Arthur seemed to deteriorate further, like he’d given up holding onto what little strength he had left. He sagged into Dutch’s side, whimpering, and Dutch carefully wrapped an arm around his stomach, holding him in place. 

“Dutch?” 

“I’m right here,” he quickly promised, watching as Arthur slowly turned his head to face him. Dutch couldn’t bring himself to smile, only tightening his hold on the still shivering form against him. 

“I-it’s...it’s getting worse.” 

Dutch nodded. “I know, Arthur. I noticed. Just hold on a little longer.” 

“Dutch it  _ hurts. _ ” And he sounded so terrified, scared and pained and anguished, and Dutch suddenly wasn't sure he could hold it together much longer. They were both running on their last bit of strength, losing their fights, fading in front of the other. 

“I know,” Dutch said again, voice wavering dangerously. He held him closer, letting Arthur’s head rest in the crook of his neck, content to just hear him breathe no matter how horrible the noise was. It meant he was still alive. “Just hold on, Arthur.  _ Please _ .” 

They sat there on the forest floor, clinging to each other, for what felt like hours. Each one of Arthur’s gasps or whimpers tore through Dutch like a knife, and he closed his eyes, waiting. 

And then there were footsteps, quick and approaching, followed by the gentle grunts of horses. Dutch raised his head, daring to be hopeful, letting out a relieved sigh when he saw Hosea and John guiding three readied mounts through the trees. 

“Thank god,” he breathed. “Bring one of them over here.” 

Hosea did as he was told, quietly soothing the animal as it was lead forward, but the older man’s eyes were glued to a silent Arthur. 

“How is he?” 

“We need to get him help,” Dutch said, hard and determined, like Hosea wasn’t already painfully aware. “He’s running out of time.” 

Hosea held the horse steady as Dutch positioned Arthur’s legs to hang over his own, carefully wrapping one arm around his back, the other under his knees. He stood, pulling Arthur up with him, doing all he could to block out the agonized groan Arthur couldn't even try to fight against. 

Getting him on the saddle proved to be just as painful, Arthur choking on his cries as he was continuously jostled, hands moving to clutch at his stomach. John was at his side, doing his best to offer some sort of comfort as Dutch mounted behind him, easing Arthur back until he was securely resting against his chest. 

“ _ Dutch. _ ” 

“Get going,” Hosea said, already moving for one of the remaining horses. “We’re right behind you.” 

Dutch didn't need any further encouragement, kicking the bounty hunter’s horse and wrapping a hand around a groaning Arthur as they lurched forward, tearing through the forest’s low hanging branches. 

“You still with me?” Dutch asked, veering through the trees in search of the path to town. Arthur moved against him, muttering incoherently. “Almost there, son. We’re almost there. Keep going. Just for a little bit longer. You’re going to be ok, Arthur. I swear, you’re going to make it.” 

Dutch watched as Arthur, too weak to respond properly, raised a shaking hand to clamp around Dutch’s wrist, and he knew he’d been heard. 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

 

Hosea did his best to keep up, pushing his horse until he was worried it would try to throw him, but Dutch and Arthur tore across the forest until they were nothing but a dot in the distance. 

The stolen horse might not be The Count, but it seemed to be able to sense Dutch’s unwavering determination. It never slowed, never protested, taking them to Strawberry at an impossible speed. Hosea had no doubt Dutch would push the horse to death if it meant giving Arthur a chance, and he stubbornly gave his own horse another kick. 

A part of him saw the increasing distance as a blessing, the noises coming from Arthur growing farther and farther away until they were completely out of earshot.

The silence only ended up making the trip more terrifying, no longer able to tell if Arthur was even still alive. But Hosea wasn’t sure he could stand to listen to Arthur’s cries a moment longer, the way his screams faded into agonized whimpers. 

The silence let him clear his mind and think, which unfortunately lead him to the inevitable conclusion that they might be too late. Whatever Arthur had been poisoned with was still ruthlessly tearing at his insides, and mixed with the attack from the bounty hunters…

Suddenly desperate to think about something else, Hosea turned to the man riding beside him. John was silent and still, clutching his arm, lost deep in thought. Hosea cleared his throat, craning his head to get a better look at the injury. 

“How’s the arm?” he asked.

John just shrugged, still refusing to look up. “It’s fine.” 

“You sure?” 

“I said it’s  _ fine.”  _ John tried to push his horse faster, receiving only an angry grunt from the already tired animal. The younger man huffed, shoulders sagging, wincing when it pulled at his torn skin. “Sorry, uh...I just-just-Arthur’s...going to be...he’ll be fine, right?”

Hosea swallowed, suddenly the one refusing to meet worried eyes. He sighed, hating the way his voice didn't tremble, how easy it was for him to be realistic, to push down his own crippling worry. 

“John,” he said carefully. “Arthur’s strong but...we wasted a lot of time. Hopefully there will be some medicine that can help but...we need to understand that he might not...he might--”

“What, that he might  _ die?”  _ John snapped, and Hosea met him steadily. “Jesus, Hosea, how can you say that? We come this far and you’re just giving up on him?” 

"What exactly did you want me to say? John he’s--” he quickly stopped himself. John and Dutch were emotional wrecks, that didn’t mean he had to be too. He’d give anything to have Dutch’s blind faith in the unlikely, but he’d gladly bear the burden tonight if it meant keeping his family safe and sane. Even if his outlook would do little to help Arthur. “I’m not giving up I’m…” 

“He’ll be ok,” John said when Hosea trailed off. He sounded confident, mirroring Dutch perfectly, like there couldn’t possibly be any other way for this to turn out. Arthur was going to be ok, he  _ had  _ to be. Hosea knew they couldn’t take it if he wasn’t.

So he just nodded, deciding for the time being he would do his best to believe. Besides, if anyone could make it through this, it was Arthur Morgan.  

“Get that arm looked at when we get into town, alright?” 

John frowned, glancing down at the bloody cloth. He lowered his arm until it was hanging limply in his lap before giving a small nod. 

“After Arthur’s ok,” he said, voice holding no room for argument, and Hosea could only sigh with no choice but to agree. 

  
  


It was a miracle they hadn’t run someone over. Or, maybe they had. Hosea doubted any of them were paying much attention, and the town was dark and quiet. 

Dutch had finally slowed down as he barreled through the gates of Strawberry, still going hazardously fast through the narrow streets, his commanding voice echoing and bouncing across the walls as he neared the doctor’s building, screaming for help. 

Hosea and John were just managing to catch up, wrestling with their exhausted horses, and Hosea could see Dutch more clearly now. He was hunched over his horse, cradling a worryingly still Arthur against him, one hand on the reins and the other wrapped across the younger man’s chest.   

They skidded to a stop in front of the doctor’s, Dutch already working on dismounting. John ran to help but Hosea pulled him back, ignoring his protests. He’d done more than enough tonight, and they couldn’t risk worsening his injury any more. 

Hosea stopped at Dutch’s side, pausing, any confidence he’d had left quickly vanishing when he couldn’t even get the man to look at him as he approached. 

“Dutch…”

“Help me,” Dutch ordered, turning his head towards the quiet building. “We need  _ help _ ! I need a doctor!” 

Dutch was loud enough to wake the entire town, and it wasn’t long before a light flickered on in the window, followed quickly by two more from neighboring buildings. 

Arthur’s eyes were closed, his damp face sickeningly pale, and for a heart-stopping moment, Hosea thought they might already be too late. 

But then Dutch hooked his arms under his shoulders and Arthur flinched, too weak to do anything but gape in silent pain, and Hosea swayed under the weight of relief. 

“Grab his legs,” Dutch said. He was back in control, his panic temporarily set aside now that he had a new task to focus on. “Get him off this damn horse.” 

Hosea obeyed just as the door opened, a tired looking man stumbling onto the porch with a lantern in his hand. He adjusted his nightshirt, frowning at the sight before him. 

“What in god’s name--?” 

“Are you the doctor?” John asked, the question sounding almost like an accusation, and the man jumped. 

“I-I am. Sir. What do…” 

“My friend needs help,” Dutch started, some of the desperation already returning to his voice when he spoke, lifting Arthur off the saddle with Hosea’s help. Something broke further in his eyes when Arthur let out a choked scream, stiffening against Dutch and reaching blindly for comfort. His control visibly faltered and he pulled Arthur closer, Hosea letting go when he could see Dutch was insistent on bearing the weight by himself. “He needs...he needs medicine, he’s...there was…” 

“He was poisoned,” Hosea stepped in. “Someone put something in his drink a few hours ago.” 

The doctor blinked, registering the information, before nodding and beckoning them inside. Dutch was talking softly, attempting to soothe Arthur as they made their way up the porch steps, quiet promises and reassurances that weren’t meant for Hosea to hear. 

“Do you know what it is?” the doctor asked, and Hosea regrettably shook his head. 

They laid Arthur down on the nearest cot, Hosea growing more and more tense with each one of Arthur’s cries and whimpers. He couldn’t even tell if Arthur was awake anymore, if he even knew what was happening. 

At the doctor’s instructions, Hosea started listing off Arthur’s symptoms, risking letting himself feel almost hopeful when the doctor nodded in response. Dutch didn't even seem to hear, his eyes locked on a now unresponsive Arthur, holding onto his shaky hand. 

Hosea stepped back when the doctor retrieved his kit and knelt beside the bed, finally able to acknowledge that there was nothing more he could do. He’d done his best, they all had, and now they could only wait and let the doctor work. 

Dutch moved to give the doctor space, but he never let go of Arthur, like he was terrified of leaving him alone for even one moment. Hosea thought he understood. 

“My friend cut his arm,” he said quietly, gesturing at John. “Got something I can stitch him up with?” 

The doctor turned, studied the man by the door, and waved absently to the cabinet on the wall as he turned back to his patient. 

“Help yourself.” 

It was far from the worst injury John had received over the years, he was perfectly capable of treating it himself, but Hosea couldn’t stand to simply step aside and watch. Having nothing to do was hardly a relief, only leaving him with an empty uncertainty, the waiting somehow more painful than watching Arthur suffer. 

John seemed to understand, offering no argument as Hosea sat him down, pulling out the doctor’s med kit and setting to work on cleaning the gash. 

The room was coated in a heavy silence, filled only with heavy breathing and occasional hisses from John as his arm was meticulously bandaged. Hosea thought he saw the doctor doing something to Arthur, pouring something down his throat, injecting something in his arm, always silent, Dutch tense and protective at his side like a watchdog. 

Hosea wasn’t sure how much time had passed. John’s arm was cleaned and wrapped up by the time the doctor leaned back and sighed, setting down an empty bottle. There was a brief moment of panic and Hosea’s legs suddenly threatened to give out. 

But then Arthur’s chest rose and fell, shallow and ragged, far from healthy, but he was alive and Hosea let out a breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding. 

The doctor’s diagnosis was hardly surprising, brief and hardly much of a relief. 

It was some kind of snake venom, something nasty and fatal, but the doctor couldn’t be completely sure. He claimed he’d never seen it before, that it was different than the snake bites people usually got around here. 

Arthur had been lucky. Beyond lucky. He hadn't ingested very much, and apparently he’d expelled most of it from his system fairly quickly. Hosea could just imagine Arthur, curled up alone in some bathroom, refusing to ruin Dutch’s perfect plan with his discomfort, his isolation the perfect opportunity for that bounty hunter to grab him. 

He felt a flash at anger, but at this point he wasn't sure who it was aimed at. 

“But he’ll be ok?” John asked, the only one of them who had found the strength to speak. The doctor fell silent, and Hosea’s heart dropped. Because the hesitation was exactly what he had been expecting. 

“I really don’t know,” the doctor admitted. “I gave him medicine, but I don’t know if it’ll work against this poison. To be honest with you, it’s a miracle he’s even still alive. If you’d gotten here sooner...well, he’d have a better chance. But this is all I can do for him. At least until there’s some sort of change.”

John blinked. “So--” 

“ _ So.”  _ The doctor ran a hand over his face, turning to a silent Hosea. “We wait. He’ll either wake up and start recovering, or…” 

Hosea nodded, understanding. He’d either wake up or he wouldn’t. He might never open his eyes again. Or he might, and the few moments of pain and confusion would be the last ones he ever had. 

John’s face fell, watching in disbelief as the man simply straightened out his coat and cleared his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. He hardly sounded apologetic, delivering news like this in his job description. “I wish there was more I could do.”  

“Can we stay here?” Hosea asked. He didn't want to move Arthur any more than he had to, and a horse ride back to camp would only lessen his chances. 

The man hesitated again, nodding reluctantly. “I have, uh, a back room. He can stay there. Look, I hate to ask this now, but...I assume you gentlemen will be able to pay?” 

John bristled, and Hosea quickly put a steady hand on his shoulder. “We’ll pay when he’s  _ better.”  _

“There’s nothing more I can do--” 

“We’ll pay,” Hosea promised calmly. “As soon as we can. Let’s just get him settled in first, alright?” 

The doctor nodded, moving towards the cot to help move Arthur to the next room, but an eerily silent Dutch just waved him away, lifting Arthur by himself and taking him where he was instructed. 

Arthur was given a bed with a thin blue quilt and a pillow. A lantern was placed on the small table as Dutch laid him gently on the bed, covering his shivering frame with the blanket and brushing away the strands of hair plastered to his forehead. 

“Call me if there’s any change,” the doctor said, hovering in the doorway. “Like I said, there’s not much I can do but…” 

“Thank you, doctor,” Hosea said. “Why don't you go back to bed?” 

The man just huffed, muttering something under his breath as he turned away, shutting the door behind him. Hosea bit his lip, finally turning to Dutch who had been just as unresponsive as Arthur. 

He was standing beside the bed, looking aimless and confused, his face hollow and expressionless. There were two chairs in the room, John already claiming one in the far corner, and Hosea retrieved the other, sliding it towards Dutch. 

“Sit down,” he instructed gently. “Come on. You’re exhausted.” 

There was no argument, no movement, and Hosea carefully guided the other man into the chair, his knees resting against the blanket. His eyes didn't leave Arthur, his gaze locked like nothing else in the world mattered. 

At the moment, Hosea supposed nothing did. 

“Dutch?” 

“We need to pay that man,” Dutch said, his voice painfully unsteady. “I don’t...I don’t have any money on me.” 

“We didn't bring any,” Hosea reminded him. “The party, remember? I can ride back to camp and get some from the box. The others will be worried if we’re gone too long, anyway.” 

Dutch nodded, slow, like Hosea’s words were just barely understood, taking a moment to process. If Hosea didn't know better, he would have said Dutch was the one who had been poisoned. 

“Take John with you,” Dutch said, and the youngest practically flew out of his chair in a furious protest, wincing when it pulled at his arm. 

“I’m staying,” he insisted. 

“ _ No,  _ you’re not,” Hosea said. He could read Dutch like an open book, and the man was falling apart. He needed to be alone, and there would be no prying him away from Arthur when any breath could be his last. “You need to rest that arm.” 

“I can rest it fine here.” 

“ _ John,”  _ Hosea snapped, and it seemed to get through to John’s stubbornness, the fire fizzling out of his eyes. “Please. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” 

And thankfully, John seemed to understand, nodding with a wary glance at Dutch. He stood, stopping at the end of Arthur’s bed. He looked like he wanted to say something, but John only tore his eyes away and started for the door. 

Hosea stopped beside Dutch’s chair, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder, not surprised when he received no response. 

“You’ll be ok by yourself?” he asked. Dutch clenched his jaw, sucking in a breath, finally turning his head to look at Hosea. It didn't make him feel any better, swallowing when he met Dutch’s wary, bloodshot eyes. 

“I need to stay with him, Hosea,” he said. “I need...I need to be here until he’s ok.” 

“Dutch,” Hosea started, already hating what he was about to say. But false hope would only end up crushing Dutch more if it didn't work out the way they wanted. “You heard the doctor. He might not...he might not wake up. The poison--” 

“ _ Stop.”  _ Dutch sounded so broken, so defeated, the rawness of his voice silencing Hosea. “Stop, please. Don’t...don’t say that. For God’s sake, Hosea. Don’t tell me that right now.” 

“I’m sorry,” Hosea said, and Dutch shook his head. “Sorry. I just--” 

“I know.”

Hosea, knowing that the only real way to repair the damage was for Arthur to open his eyes, decided the best thing to do would be to take his leave before he made it any worse. 

He turned to the door, the floor creaking under his weight. John was waiting in the hallway, pretending to be focused on the floor, and Hosea heard Dutch shift in his chair. 

“Thank you,” he said, quiet, genuine, and Hosea knew it wasn't meant to be responded to. He'd done all he could to control the situation, awful as it was, and Dutch needed him to know that he understood, that it was appreciated. 

Hosea stepped into the hall, feeling no less anxious than he had when he'd first seen Arthur on the floor of the study, and closed the door behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

The world completely melted away as soon as Dutch was left alone, leaving him in an empty void, the only sound Arthur’s ragged and shallow breaths. Tremors still wracked his body, Dutch squeezing his hand each time and waiting for them to die back down into the constant shivers he’d unfortunately grown used to. 

Whatever medicine the doctor had given Arthur seemed to have helped somewhat, a bit of color returning to his face, but his cheeks were flushed and feverish, his forehead still coated in beads of sweat. 

Pale sunlight was starting to filter in through the window, the hellish night finally coming to an end. Dutch knew he should be exhausted. He’d been up for hours, carrying Arthur and fighting against his delirium the better part of the evening, but he had no desire to close his eyes. 

He needed to sit here, needed to see Arthur breathing, needed to see him open his eyes and keep them open. Nothing else mattered, nothing else was registering, the rest of the world set aside and locked away until Arthur was ok. 

He thought the doctor might have come in at one point, checking Arthur over, saying something, but Dutch hardly noticed him. Arthur wasn’t better, the doctor wasn’t doing anything to speed up his recovery, and he filed the man’s words as unimportant. 

He might’ve sat there for hours, the room growing brighter as the day progressed, Dutch feeling stiff and cramped as he remained unmoving. He never let go of Arthur’s hand, never tore his gaze away, terrified that he would simply give up and stop breathing if Dutch left him for even a second. 

“ _ No…”  _

Arthur finally spoke for the first time in too long, and Dutch was immediately alert. The single word sounded full of so much pain, his anguish leaking out into his unconscious mumbles. 

He was twitching, shaking his head, his eyes moving frantically underneath his eyelids, breath hitching and becoming frantic once again. Dutch leaned closer, tightening his hold. His free hand rested on Arthur’s chest, and Dutch could feel his racing heart beneath his fingers. 

“No, no,  _ no…” _

“Arthur,” Dutch tried. “Arthur, you’re dreaming. It’s just a dream, son. You’re safe.”

But it only grew worse, Arthur holding Dutch’s hand in a vice grip as his quiet cries continued. “Couldn’t...I-I couldn't...couldn’t... _ help... _ they--”

As much as he’d wanted to hear Arthur's voice, listening to this was torturous, and Dutch struggled to speak around the lump forming in his throat. 

“Try to relax,” Dutch pleaded. “Relax, Arthur. Just relax. It’s a  _ dream _ . I’m right here with you. You’re safe, I promise.” 

It was proving to be futile, Arthur too far gone to even begin to hear him, the pain of his dream only growing more vivid. 

“Th-they…” he broke off with a whimper, shaking his head. “They’re  _ dead _ , Dutch.” 

Dutch leaned closer, newfound determination sparking at hearing his name. “Who’s dead, son?”

For a moment, it looked like Arthur wasn't going to answer. The fidgeting lessened, his breathing slowing, but the grip on Dutch’s hand only tightened. He eventually spoke again, voice trembling and scared, and if Dutch hadn’t been so close he doubted he would have heard. 

“Isaac...Eli--Dutch, they’re...I-I wasn’t...wasn’t... _ Dutch.  _ Dutch, they’re--” 

“Oh,  _ Arthur.”  _

Because Dutch remembered that day, remembered when Arthur had lost them. When he’d sought Dutch out, soon after drinking himself close to death, a broken mess, the older man seeming to be the only thing that could get through to him. 

Dutch had no doubt that Arthur almost hadn’t made it through the night, barely functioning when he’d been found, aimless and shattered, cold and empty, and Dutch had been so terrified that it would be the day he lost him. That Arthur would fade away in front of him, and there would be nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing he could do to help. 

And here they were, years later, somehow both reliving the same experience under the weight of a new threat, Dutch once again faced with being powerless, watching Arthur struggle to stay alive right in front of him. And once again, there was nothing he could do to help other than stay. 

So he stayed. 

Tears had started forming at the corners of Arthur’s eyes, trailing down his face and staining the pillow. His lip trembled, his sleep plagued with the sorrow he was forced to relive. 

Dutch hadn’t even realized he’d followed suit until the first drop slid off his jaw, hitting his hand. He didn't even try to fight back anymore, any walls he’d still been holding up collapsing completely when Arthur reached for him, the way he had in his drunken state all those years ago. 

Arthur’s whimpers turned to sobs when Dutch pulled him close, carefully maneuvering until they were both sitting on the bed, Arthur slumped against him, still out of it, held against Dutch’s chest like he was a child. 

“I’m so sorry,” Dutch whispered. Sobs and tremors continued to wrack Arthur’s body, and Dutch just held him tight, his face wet and his eyes stinging. “Arthur, I’m so sorry.” 

“I wasn’t--” Arthur’s breath hitched, and he buried his face in Dutch’s shoulder. “I wasn’t  _ there.”  _

“I know,” Dutch said. Because he did. He’d already heard Arthur’s sobs, his guilt, the blames he placed on himself. And there was nothing Dutch could do, no reassurances or promises, because there was no changing the past. No way to bring back that poor girl and her son. “It wasn’t your fault. It’s not your  _ fault _ , Arthur.” 

He could feel Arthur’s sobs getting worse, his breathing replaced with wheezes and hiccups. Dutch ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm him down. 

“I’m here.” It was the one thing he could offer. The one promise he could keep. “Right here. And I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you. But you need to wake up. Wake up, Arthur.  _ Please _ . Come back to us. Just open your eyes.”

Dutch repeated his mantra, his quiet pleads, quieting when Arthur finally began to settle down. His cries ceased, the wheezing turning back into shallow breaths, the nightmare gradually dying down. 

When the doctor came back in, seeing the tears still trailing down Dutch’s face, the man immediately assumed the worst, Dutch just managing to cut off his attempts at unwanted condolences. 

“He’s still with us,” he assured, voice hoarse. “He wouldn’t give up that easy.” 

The doctor nodded, swallowing, and Dutch pretended not to see the pitying look from the man at the door. 

“The fever might cause him to have some...vivid dreams,” the doctor explained, and if Dutch had the strength he would have scoffed. “If he says anything it’s best to just ignore it. It’s just a dream. It’ll pass.” 

Dutch nodded. “Noted.” 

The doctor sighed, eyeing the two men sadly, and Dutch suddenly felt uncomfortably vulnerable in the stranger’s presence. He held Arthur closer, trying to forget there was someone else in the room. 

“I’m going to get you a wet towel,” the doctor said. “Work on getting the fever down. It might help.”

“Might?” Dutch repeated, and the man simply shrugged, apologetic. 

“That’s the best I can offer.” The doctor turned, disappearing down the hall without another word. 

The nightmare seemed to have only exhausted Arthur further. He barely registered the cold cloth pressed against his forehead, only briefly wrinkling his brow before his face went slack again. 

The doctor was wise enough to quickly dismiss himself, shutting the door again and leaving Dutch and Arthur alone. The room was beginning to darken, the night once again approaching, and Dutch was starting to feel the first bit of weariness set into his bones. 

He linked Arthur’s hand with his, Arthur’s skin still warm and clammy, wiping his flushed face with the damp towel. Arthur’s breathing was beginning to slow a bit, becoming a bit more peaceful.

Dutch waited until the room was dark, when Arthur's breathing sounded almost normal and he could try and fool himself into thinking the younger was merely sleeping and could wake up easily whenever he pleased. Dutch peeled the towel away, slowly sliding away from Arthur and laying him back down on the pillow, pulling the quilt over his chest. 

Five minutes. Arthur would still be here if he stepped out for five minutes. He’d want Dutch to at least go to the bathroom and wash his face. He stood, letting Arthur’s arm fall limply over the side of the bed, stepping out of the small room into the hallway. 

He could hear the doctor talking quietly to a patient in the next room, no fear or uncertainty in their diagnosis and Dutch, knowing he had no right to be bitter, closed himself in the tiny bathroom and did all he could to block out the voices. 

Dutch made a point of not looking at himself in the mirror, already able to imagine how awful he looked. He could worry about himself when Arthur was awake, after they put this whole thing behind them. 

He blinked water from his eyes, drying his hands on his shirt, taking a moment to simply lean against the sink and pretend this wasn’t happening. To clear his head and pretend he hadn’t been stupid enough to get them in this mess, to get Arthur caught in the crossfire of another one of Dutch’s plans destined to go wrong. 

He sighed, gripping the edge of the sink when he swayed on his feet, his head starting to feel heavy, the exhaustion slowly seeping in. Dutch ran a hand over his face, blinking furiously. He’d stayed up longer than this before, he wasn’t going to let Arthur go through this alone. 

Straightening his shirt, Dutch left the cramped bathroom behind and hurried back to the bedroom, ignoring the sounds of the doctor biding his patient farewell. But there was another noise, quiet and muffled, and Dutch slowed. 

His hesitation lasted only a second, Dutch breaking out into a sprint as soon as he realized what he was hearing. He practically threw himself against the door, bursting into the room in a panic, skidding to a stop in the middle of the floor. 

Arthur, face still slack and unresponsive, was arching up off the bed, convulsing. Tears were once again running down his cheeks, his face going a deep red, his mouth opened in an awful, desperate gasp. 

Something thick and watery coated the corners of his mouth, running down his chin. Arthur’s gasps were overpowered by gags and he continued to convulse, choking on his own vomit. 

Dutch raced forward, not entirely sure what he was supposed to do. He cupped a hand under Arthur’s head, lifting him off the pillow, frantically turning him over on his side. 

The gut-wrenching gags and convulsions didn’t stop, but Dutch barely had time to react before Arthur was heaving onto the floor, shaking through the retches, staining the wood floor. 

The few short breaks in between consisted only of pained whimpers, barely giving Arthur enough time to take a breath before the heaving would pick up again. 

Dutch stayed beside him, rubbing his back, trying to ease the pain. It did very little, and Dutch’s hand froze each time the gags grew worse turning into panicked chokes as Arthur’s weakened body continued to endure the torment. 

The doctor rushed in at some point, summoned by the commotion, but Dutch already knew the only thing to do was wait it out. The man watched Arthur sadly, hesitating only a moment before backing into the hall to give them privacy. 

The vomiting lasted the better part of the night. Even after Arthur had expelled everything in his stomach, after he’d dug himself into a deeper, agonized exhaustion, the heaves didn’t stop. 

He arched against Dutch, gagging and coughing, and Dutch could only hold Arthur’s head in his lap, running his hand through his hair, praying that this would all be over soon. 

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

_ “Arthur.”  _

And if Arthur could, he would have told the distant voice to shut up, to let him sleep for once. He was  _ tired,  _ for god’s sake. Nobody ever let him rest.

_ “Arthur, come on. You need to wake up.”  _

No. He really didn’t. He felt himself on the verge of slipping back into deep sleep, the peaceful darkness still with its secure hold on him. So whoever needed him could just wait until morning. 

_ “Please, son. Come back.”  _

Arthur recognized that voice, though he couldn’t quite place it. He tried to frown, noticing idly that he couldn't move, the surrounding dark haze pushing him back down.

_ “Dutch.”  _ It was a different voice, slightly louder, slightly more clear.  _ “It’s been…”  _

_ “I know how long it’s been.”  _

The voices were growing closer, the darkness that held him down beginning to lift. Arthur thought about fighting against it, to fall back asleep and worry about all this later, but curiosity won over and he continued his attempts to simply move his head. 

But something was fighting against him, trying to push him back down. A silent presence warning him to go back, to let the darkness have its hold and sleep. But the voices continued, dragging him further along. 

_ “You need to sleep.”  _

_ “I will sleep when he’s goddamn awake, Hosea!”  _

And maybe it was the sudden rise in volume, the venom in the voice echoing through his mind, but the gentle pull into consciousness turned into a vicious tug, and Arthur’s mind began to clear. 

And then he realized why a part of him hadn’t wanted to wake up. 

Everything hurt. Arthur didn’t think it was possible to feel so utterly horrible and he quickly changed course, trying to sink back into the painless oblivion, doing all he could to block out the voices. 

_ “Arthur?”  _

But they wouldn’t leave him alone. 

_ “Did you hear that? Did he move?” _

_ “I don’t--” _

_ “Arthur!”  _

They were growing louder, the voices only increasing the blinding pain in his head. His stomach was being shredded, knives dancing and scraping across his skin, his insides squeezing. 

He tried to speak, to tell the voices that he didn’t  _ want  _ to wake up, that unconsciousness was far more desirable. But the pain in his throat proved to be the worst of all, raw, stabbing pain spreading across his neck. It made him choke, the only noise escaping a pathetic wheeze. 

He was fairly sure someone had gone and stuck a knife in his throat and left it there, the blade buried in his skin. He tried to reach up, to claw at his throat and pull the weapon out, but he couldn’t move his arms. He was forced to lay there, immobile and in agony, with no idea where he was or who was with him. 

“We’re here, son.” The voice was right beside him now, clear and audible, but Arthur still couldn’t pinpoint who was talking. He needed to open his eyes, needed to see whoever had the audacity to bring him into this pain. “We’ve got you.” 

“Can you hear us, Arthur?” The second voice asked. This one was familiar as well, but Arthur’s mind wouldn't let him focus on anything other than the agony. 

He tried to take a breath, but the pain in his throat only worsened, emitting another quiet, panicked gasp as his whole body stiffened. 

“You’re ok,” one of the voices soothed. It was a blatant lie, and Arthur felt a flash of anger. How was the voice supposed to know if he was ok? “God, Arthur. Just breathe. It’ll be over soon.”

Arthur highly doubted that, his chest growing tight as he still struggled to breathe around the knife in his throat. There was a hand under his jaw, the hand of one of the men he didn’t recognize, and Arthur tried to flinch away in a panic. But he still couldn’t move, his body refusing to obey his desperate, muddled commands. 

“That’s it, son. Keep going.” Both voices sounded desperate, tired, and fearful, and Arthur found himself compelled to listen. 

“Can you open your eyes?” one of them asked. “Come on, Arthur. Focus on my voice and open your eyes. Look at me. We need you to come back to us.” 

Arthur, drawn in by the voices he was so desperate to recognize, did his best, hating how difficult the simple motion was. He fought against the dark’s pull, too weak to cry out against the worsening pain, locking instead onto the quiet encouragements that surrounded him. 

And finally, the first filter of light seeped into his vision as his eyes finally slipped open. It  _ hurt,  _ feeling like someone was trying to burn his eyes out of his skull, but he still couldn't even furrow his brow against the pain. 

Through his sliver of vision, Arthur could see a dark shape moving above him, the voices now muffled by the increased pounding in his head. 

But he kept fighting, his eyes gradually opening more and more until he could just make out the blurred silhouette of two men hovering above him. He was in a bed, positioned so he was laying on his side. 

“Arthur?” 

And Dutch was in front of him, blurry and out of focus, but unmistakably Dutch. Hosea was beside him, quiet and anxious. From what Arthur could see, they both looked awful. 

The hand on his face was suddenly a comfort, warm and grounding. Arthur tried again to speak, hating the quiet whimper that escaped and the hot tears that formed in his eyes. 

“Thank god.” But Dutch sounded relieved, despite the weariness of his tone, and Arthur heard Hosea let out a breath. He’d clearly done something right, something to set them at ease, and he tried to relax. 

There was a new set of footsteps, a third person entering the room and coming closer. Arthur tensed when Dutch looked away to address whoever it was.

“Is he awake?” 

The new voice was unfamiliar, and Arthur caught sight of the man’s strange face as he moved closer, peering down at Arthur curiously. 

“He just woke up,” Hosea explained, moving out of Arthur’s vision. “I’m not sure how aware he is. I don’t think he can move.” 

“Give him time.” The strange man moved closer, frowning. Arthur did everything he could to move away, fighting back another whimper when his body remained where it was. “Let me take a look at him.” 

And then Dutch was gone too, pulling his hand away, leaving Arthur cold and confused with a stranger hovering over him. 

He searched the room frantically, trying to catch sight of Hosea or Dutch, his panic only worsening when he realized he didn’t know where he was. This wasn’t his tent, this wasn’t camp, this man was not a friend. 

Were Dutch and Hosea even here? Had it just been his imagination? Something he’d conjured up in his broken state, his mind too pained and confused to accept that he was alone? 

The man’s hands were on his face, not aggressive but not exactly gentle. It was far from Dutch’s comforting touch, and Arthur felt himself shudder as the man’s fingers tightened below his eye. 

“Try and relax,” the man said, hardly comforting, and Arthur did all he could to shake him off. But he didn't even have the strength to twist his head. His breathing grew quicker, more frantic as the man leaned closer, each breath sending new jolts of agony through his already tight chest. 

Arthur tried to call out to Dutch, whether he was in the room or not, barely managing the first syllable before the rest of the word was overtaken by a pained wheeze. 

“I’m right here, Arthur.” But Dutch was there, he understood what Arthur couldn’t say, reaching out to grasp Arthur’s hand. “Just let the doctor take a look at you. You’re safe.” 

Arthur did his best to ignore the man Dutch said was a doctor, working instead on controlling his breathing and focusing on the pressure against his hand, squeezing gently. 

The man finally pulled away, turning away from Arthur without another word, but Dutch’s hold never loosened. 

“It looks like he’s over the worst of it,” the doctor said. Arthur wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, why he was even here, but he felt Dutch squeeze his hand again. “Obviously there are still some risks. You can see how weak he is. He’s got a long recovery ahead of him.” 

“But he’ll be ok?” Dutch asked.

“If he can keep food and water down,” the doctor said. “Then I think so, yes. Honestly I...I didn’t think he’d pull through. He’s quite a fighter.” 

“You have no idea,” Hosea said fondly. Arthur blinked, wondering what he’d done this time to make everyone so worried. 

“I’ll bring him some water,” the doctor said, stepping out of Arthur’s field of view. “Then he needs to get some rest. You two should do the same.” 

The doctor’s footsteps faded, the door closing gently behind him. Arthur, still unable to move his head to look away from the ceiling, just listened to the quiet breathing of the men left in the room. 

“Did you hear that?” Dutch asked, moving so Arthur could see him. “You’re going to be fine. Just like I promised you would be.” 

Arthur wanted to ask what had happened, his head still too fuzzy to put the pieces together, too scrambled to understand why he was hurting. He wanted to at least nod, to show Dutch that he trusted him. 

But just keeping his eyes open was a losing battle. His blinking became sluggish, and Arthur felt himself falling back into the darkness.

“Stay awake,” Hosea said gently, his hand suddenly on Arthur’s face. “Just for a minute. You need to drink some water.” 

Begrudgingly, Arthur peeled his eyes back open, just able to stifle a weak moan when the light from the window only added to his discomfort. 

Dutch moved to sit beside him, carefully moving Arthur into a sitting position, slowing the process when Arthur whimpered again, the movement pulling at the knives in his stomach. 

He hadn’t even heard the doctor come back in, but suddenly there was a glass of water under his chin, Hosea gently guiding it to his chapped lips, and Arthur suddenly realized how dry his throat was. 

As much as he tried, Arthur didn’t have the strength to lift the cup by himself, barely managing to swallow the few sips of the cold liquid they let him have before the glass was pulled away. 

“Best to take it slow,” he heard the doctor say. “He needs to hydrate, but I don’t know how much vomiting he can handle in this state. Let him have a little bit more next time he wakes up.” 

Arthur was already fading, eyes closed before he could even try to make out what any of that meant. He heard the door close, heard Dutch sigh, Arthur’s hand still in his. 

“You need to get some sleep,” Hosea said, voice soft, and it took Arthur a second to realize it wasn’t directed at him. He felt Dutch’s hold loosen. 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re exhausted,” Hosea argued. “You haven’t slept in days, Dutch. You said you would when Arthur was ok. You heard the doctor. He’ll recover.” 

Dutch hesitated, and Arthur strained to stay awake long enough to know that Dutch had the sense to take care of himself. 

“I don’t want him to be alone.”

“He won’t,” Hosea promised. “I’ll stay with him a while, and I know John’s dying to see him. Head back to the hotel, Dutch. Arthur will be ok.” 

Arthur wanted to agree. He knew Dutch was here, that he hadn’t left him, and that everything would be explained when they had both gotten their much needed rest. 

But he was too far gone to even begin to try and move his tongue, the pain fading beneath the dark, the world melting away and offering peace. 

  
  
  


It was slowly coming back to him. Arthur remembered the party, he remembered Brandon Smallcut, and the sickening realization that something was wrong, that someone had slipped something into his drink. 

He vaguely recalled being tied and gagged to a chair, the bounty hunter talking to dutch, the pain in his stomach steadily growing worse and worse with no way to tell Dutch that they’d done something to him. 

Other than that, it was just brief flashes of pain, of Dutch’s voice, images of the treetops as they trekked across the forest. Arthur thought he remembered more men, and Hosea jumped in to explain the latest attack, Arthur beginning to understand just why his throat felt like someone had slowly burned off all his skin. 

John had hung his head, picking absently at his bandage as Hosea told the story, Arthur grinning at the younger man the whole time. When Arthur was able to talk again, he’d never let John live this down. According to Dutch and Hosea, he’d been more worried than he was letting on. 

It was a day after he’d woken up the first time, Dutch, Hosea, and John seated around his bed, doing their best to fill him in. Arthur didn’t miss the glances they shared, the way their voices trailed off, the way they did their best not to let him see how awful the entire ordeal had been. But he could see right through them, the lingering worry and exhaustion. It probably wasn’t helping that Arthur still couldn't talk and barely had the strength to move at all.  

It had taken three days for Arthur to wake up. Three days and three nights that had apparently been torturous for all of them, and Arthur was beyond grateful when Dutch avoided going into detail. 

The room was growing dark, the sun beginning to set behind Strawberry’s rooftops. Arthur couldn’t wait until they could get out of the stuffy room and head back to camp. But moving didn’t seem to be on anyone’s mind, and it wasn’t worth the pain of asking. Arthur wasn’t sure he could even stand if he wanted to. 

“It’s been a long day,” Hosea said suddenly. “I’m sure we’re all exhausted. I’m going to head back to the hotel, Dutch I think you should do the same.” 

“I should stay here,” Dutch argued. If he could, Arthur would have chuckled at how utterly drained he looked, rubbing at his tired eyes and unshaven face. 

“You stayed here for three days,” Hosea said. “I think Arthur will understand if you spend one night in a real bed.” 

Arthur nodded, head feeling unreasonably heavy. “Y-you...you need to rest--” he broke off with a wheeze, even the smallest sentence lighting his throat on fire. 

Dutch put a steadying hand on his shoulder, smiling sadly as they waited for Arthur to catch his breath. He nodded, reluctantly pulling his hand away and standing along with Hosea. 

“I’ll be back first thing in the morning,” he promised, like Arthur had doubted it. “If you need anything--” 

“I’ll stay with him a while,” John said. “Until he falls asleep at least. Just in case he needs anything.” 

Another time, Arthur would have argued that he didn’t need a babysitter, especially not if it was John. But his mind had remained cloudy and confused each time he woke up, occasionally forgetting where he was or how he got there until he was able to lock onto one of the familiar faces hovering above him. 

A part of him was terrified of waking up in the middle of the night, completely alone, too confused and in too much pain to understand where he was or what was happening. 

And maybe John understood that. Marston had always known him too well for anyone’s good, as tense as things sometimes were between them. 

Hosea nodded, squeezing Arthur’s arm before practically pulling an exhausted Dutch out of the room. 

“Try and get some rest,” he called, closing the door behind him, their footsteps fading down the hall, leaving the small bedroom in silence. 

John said nothing, crossing his legs and leaning against the chair, his injured arm held against his chest. Arthur watched him, the younger man’s eyes glued to the floor, and Arthur carefully tried to speak. 

“How’s--” It went even worse than last time, Arthur gasping against the sudden flare of agony, the knife still lodged in his throat digging deeper. John practically leapt out of his chair, rushing forward, but Arthur waved him away, motioning for him to sit back down. 

The pain was already fading, John looking far from relaxed. Arthur swallowed, instead gesturing at the freshly changed bandage John wouldn’t stop picking at. 

“What? Oh. Oh, my arm. It’s, uh, it’s fine. Just a scratch.” 

Arthur raised his eyebrows, not believing it for a second. John just shrugged, dropping his gaze back down to the floor. 

“It’s nothing compared to what he was doing to you,” he mumbled, and any amusement Arthur had felt towards the situation dissipated just like that. 

They’d avoided going into specifics, but Arthur had a pretty good guess based on the lingering pressure on his throat and the all too familiar aching in his ribs. 

Arthur suddenly wished he could talk, simply to thank John. To thank him for still caring after everything they’d been through. For still thinking of Arthur as his brother. 

But he never even got the chance to take the risk of trying. The next time he blinked his eyes open, the room had gone darker and John was pushing himself to his feet. Arthur turned his head to watch him, John smiling sheepishly when their eyes met in the dark. 

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Did I wake you?” 

Arthur shook his head, barely awake enough to keep his eyes open. John shifted awkwardly, glancing at the door.

“I’ll be back,” he assured. “I’m just gonna head down the street to grab some food. Do you...you think you can keep anything down?” 

Arthur shook his head again. He’d have to eat eventually, he wouldn't be able to regain any strength if he didn’t, but he still felt queasy, his stomach still aching, and just thinking about food made it worse. 

“Alright,” John relented. “I’ll just grab you some more water. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 

Arthur nodded, eyes already slipping shut as he listened to John leave. He might’ve dozed off again, not bothering to open his eyes when he heard the creak of the wood floor, gentle footsteps entering the room. 

John was moving slow and quiet towards the bed, probably doing his best to not wake Arthur, who frowned, trying to figure out how long he’d been asleep. 

The footsteps stopped and Arthur peeled his eyes open just in time to meet the watery gaze of someone who was not John before something was roughly shoved against his face, pressing down. 

Pain flared through his entire body at the sudden pressure, his cry silenced by the pillow held over his face, effectively cutting off what little air he was managing to get. 

He tried to raise his head, tried to kick and punch, to scream from behind the pillow in a desperate hope that someone would hear him. But he was still too weak, the sudden surge of adrenaline granting him just enough power to lift his arms and shove uselessly at whoever stood above him, his pathetic struggles doing nothing to deter the man suffocating him. 

Through his muffled hearing, Arthur could make out his attacker’s voice, sounding almost soothing as he choked the life out of a man already so close to death. 

“Sorry. Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry. Just stop struggling. Don’t struggle and it will all be over soon. I don’t want to...I’m sorry…” 

Arthur could barely hear him over his own panicked screams ringing in his ears, eyes watering when it felt like his throat was being ripped open. His fighting--if the weak thrashing could even be considered fighting--was quickly slowing, leaving him grasping weakly at the arms holding him down. 

“Get the  _ hell off him!”  _

The pressure was torn away, the pillow falling limply to the side, Dutch’s voice loud enough to shake the walls of the small room, spiking a new pain in Arthur’s already pounding head. 

Arthur fell back against the bed, gasping and choking, the pain worse than ever before. His throat was throbbing, the pain spreading through his body, now weakened even further, and through the dazed confusion Arthur thought he could taste blood in his mouth, thick and metallic. 

The pain was blurring his vision, leaving him shaking and defenseless on his back. His mind was slipping into panic, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to get away, the get out of the strange bed where he’d almost been murdered. 

With the tiny amount of strength he still had, Arthur gripped the ruffled blanket and pulled himself over the edge of the bed, hoping he’d have enough coordination to land on his feet and make it to the door.

He ended up falling to the ground on his stomach, just managing to keep his face from colliding with the floor, too weak to even groan when the pain worsened. Slowly, agonizingly, he made it to his knees, trying to get a hold of his surroundings. 

He couldn’t see, his vision grayed and tilted, giving him an obscure, unhelpful view of the room. He couldn’t find the door, couldn’t find an escape. He wasn’t even sure where he was or how he had gotten here. Why did everything hurt so bad? 

A voice broke through the painful ringing in his ears, and Arthur felt a spark of hope when he recognized Dutch, just able to make out the man on the other side of the room. Arthur couldn’t hear the words over the pounding of his own heart, but he gathered everything he had left to pull himself forward, crawling towards Dutch with blind trust. 

“D...Du--” He couldn’t talk, couldn’t call out for help, trying threatening to send him crashing to the floor. He dragged himself forward, closer, reaching out to grab Dutch’s shoulder. 

And if Arthur had been more aware, he would have seen how far gone Dutch had suddenly become, the blinding rage lit in his eyes, the way he was beating the man beneath him senseless. 

But Arthur, all awareness overpowered by fear and confusion, didn’t see the state Dutch was in. He was barely given time to see the fist flying at his face before he slammed against the cold ground, stunned, fresh blood rushing from his nose. 

Arthur gaped, pain exploding across his face, but he barely noticed. The only thing registering was that Dutch had  _ hit  _ him. Dutch had hurt him. Somebody had tried to suffocate him, to kill him, and in a sudden panic, Arthur wondered if that had been Dutch too. 

It all happened in a second, Dutch’s eyes widening as the rage melted away, replaced with sudden horror. His fist unclenched and his mouth fell open, but anything he might have said was drowned out by the voice at the door. 

“Jesus  _ Christ,  _ Dutch! What the hell is  _ wrong  _ with you?” 

Arthur’s head snapped up, ignoring the whimper that escaped when it aggravated his new injury, locking onto John’s appalled face. 

And John’s eyes met his, seeing Arthur’s panic and confusion and desperation, immediately dropping to his knees as Arthur reached for him, overwhelmed with shock and pain, shaking as he fought to bite back a terrified sob he knew would only make him feel worse.

“It’s ok,” John promised, wrapping an arm around Arthur, carefully letting him lean against his side. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. We got you.” 

Dutch stepped away from the man on the floor, his eyes wavering in a whirlwind of emotions. He took a careful step forward, looking impossibly heartbroken when Arthur flinched away from his approach. 

“Dutch, you’re scaring him,” John said, voice trembling. Arthur barely heard him, losing his fight against the pain, going blissfully numb as his eyes began to slip shut once again. 

“I-I...I didn’t…” Dutch sounded just as lost as Arthur felt and he turned his head away, feeling John hold him against his shoulder. “I don’t...I didn’t mean to--” 

“You need to stay away from him,” John said. “Dutch, just back off. Go...go find Hosea. Or the doctor. Just...you need to go.” 

“ _ John.”  _ Dutch was practically pleading, sounding desperate and angry. “It was an accident I...I wouldn’t...God, Arthur you know I would never--” 

He took another step forward, Arthur’s breath hitching when he heard his approach. His throat felt tight and he squeezed his eyes shut, vividly reliving the way he’d screamed, unable to breathe, unable to fight back. Dutch’s steps faltered, and John’s hold tightened. 

“Dutch, he doesn’t understand!” John snapped. “Jesus, Dutch, I know you didn’t  _ mean  _ to but look at him! He doesn’t know what’s happening. Now get the hell away from him before you make it worse!” 

The room fell deathly quiet, filled only by Arthur’s quick, panicked breaths. He heard Dutch walking again, stiffening against John, a part of him waiting to be hit again. 

But Dutch’s footsteps only grew farther away as he slipped out the door, disappearing down the hall without another word. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

  
  
  


It had taken some time to get enough air back into Arthur’s lungs so that he was breathing normally again. 

At least, that’s what they’d told Dutch. He had waited outside, hovering in the hallway, his shaking hands bloody and bruised. 

He’d run to the hotel to get Hosea, grabbing the doctor on the way back, practically dragging both men out of bed without an explanation. 

Hosea had flashed him an odd glance when Dutch refused to step into the bedroom, quickly letting it go in favor of dropping beside a shaking, once again delirious Arthur, blood rushing down his face from what Dutch had done.  

He heard John begin to recount the events, at least what little he had seen, and the hallway had suddenly felt tight and cramped, Dutch silently retreating to stand in the street. He wound up staying there, leaned against the brick wall, for what could have been hours, oddly numb and detached, his only company the continuous throbbing of his knuckles. 

They’d moved Arthur to a room in the hotel, doubting he’d feel safe at the doctor’s place when he woke up. It took the assistance of John, Hosea, and the doctor, moving Arthur’s shuddering form as gently as they could. 

Arthur would be alright, Dutch heard the doctor tell him at one point, but the suffocation followed immediately by the blow hadn’t done him any favors. He’d been severely set back, his recovery slowed, and Dutch felt sick to his stomach. 

The doctor assured that Arthur was breathing normally once again, and once the worsened confusion wore off he should be well on his way to regaining the rest of his strength, albeit slower than any of them had hoped. 

But Dutch, tired as he was, could still read the doctor’s tone, the look in his eyes, and he knew the man was far from sure. He wasn’t as positive as he’d been yesterday. 

Dutch just nodded, watching the doctor turn and leave. Arthur was still alive, the numbness was melting away, and Dutch let his mind begin to race as everything set in. 

Brandon Smallcut, that horrible slimy cowardly toad of a man, had tracked them down, had tried to finish the job, blubbering and whining the whole time like he was the one being murdered. 

Dutch hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d gotten a good two hours in the last four days, mind running frantically even after Arthur had finally opened his eyes. He’d been pacing the hotel room, careful not to wake Hosea in the other bed, watching the silver moon rise over the small town through the tiny window. 

And then he’d caught sight of John, briskly walking down the road towards the general store, and his worry had spiked. Because the image of Arthur, alone and helpless while he choked on his own vomit, nearly dying because Dutch hadn’t been there, was forever seared into his brain, and he had grabbed his coat and boots before stepping outside. 

Once again, just as terrifying as the first time, he’d found Arthur defenseless on his back, thrashing and fighting with his rapidly waning strength. But this time there was a stranger hunched over him, choking the fragile life away, and Dutch had lost it. 

He’d simply blacked out, the rage getting to his head, dunking him into a sea of furious panic, and suddenly Dutch had the attacker on the ground, barely recognizing the wide eyes of the rich asshole who had gotten them into this mess in the first place, pounding his skull into the wood. 

And then he’d hit Arthur. 

There had been another bounty hunter, a fifth one Brandon Smallcut had either conveniently forgotten to mention or simply hadn’t known about, who apparently didn’t care for Dutch killing his partners. 

Evidently, he didn’t care enough to come himself, instead forcing Smallcut to ride down to Strawberry and ensure at least one of Dutch’s men was taken down. The bounty hunter was smart enough to know that taking out the weakest of Dutch’s boys, whether it succeeded or not, was a suicide mission. 

So he’d threatened Brandon Smallcut, threatened to kill or expose him, Dutch wasn’t entirely sure. It was hard to hear the shorter man’s excuses over the blood rushing in his ears and the crack of bone beneath his hands. 

He hadn’t even gotten to kill Smallcut, the man still crying and begging on the floor when Dutch had stopped the beating, the rage gone just like that, replaced with cold, crippling dread. 

Brandon had escaped, scrambling out the door as soon as Dutch had left to get Hosea, John too worried about Arthur to even think about going after him. Brandon Smallcut wouldn't be a hard man to find, and Dutch was willing to track him to the ends of the Earth if it meant putting a bullet in his head. But Smallcut wasn’t the thing on his mind right now. 

He’d hit Arthur. 

He had  _ punched  _ Arthur. He’d struck him, too blinded by his anger to see anything but another attacker. Arthur had been hurt, confused, looking to Dutch for comfort, and Dutch had  _ hit him.  _

He wiped his bloody hand on his shirt, no longer able to discern his own blood from Brandon or Arthur’s. Dutch took a breath, tried to steady himself, feeling only sickening guilt, and started back to the hotel. 

The door to the room they’d stuck Arthur in was open ajar, the gentle glow of lantern light seeping into the hallway. Dutch slowed, listening to Hosea’s gentle voice.

“I just want you to have some water,” the older man said, and Dutch paused. “I know it hurts to swallow, but just have a little bit. Then you can go back to sleep.” 

Dutch swallowed, pushing the door open and stepping into the hotel room. 

Arthur didn’t seem to notice him at first, focusing instead on swallowing the bit of water Hosea was holding up to his face. But as soon as the glass was pulled away, his eyes landed on Dutch and the reaction was immediate. 

Arthur went rigid, eyes widening and face paling like he’d just seen a ghost. He struggled to sit up further, pressing back against the pillow, trying to get as far away from Dutch as possible. The way he was reacting, Dutch might as well have burst in with a loaded gun. 

John put a hand on Arthur’s chest as his breath caught in his throat, speeding up frantically. He tried to keep Arthur still to no avail, panicked eyes flying to Hosea then to Dutch, who stood frozen in the doorway. 

“Dutch, get out!” Hosea snapped, rising to his feet with a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. He wasn’t settling down, terrified eyes locked onto Dutch like he was some sort of monster. 

Dutch didn’t even register Hosea moving towards him until the older man roughly gripped his arm and pulled him into the hall, shutting the door behind them. Hosea’s brow was pinched, barely restrained anger in his eyes that Dutch didn’t see very often in the calm man. 

“Hosea--” 

“You  _ punched  _ him, Dutch!” Hosea exploded. He stormed down the stairs, away from the room, and Dutch knew he was expected to follow. “Did you think him seeing you right now was a good idea?”

Dutch took a shaky breath, the guilt becoming almost suffocating. “I didn’t--” 

“You  _ did.  _ You did, Dutch, you punched him in the  _ face.  _ What the hell were you thinking? Do you see how weak he is? You could have  _ killed  _ him!” 

They stopped outside the hotel doors, Dutch feeling small. It had been a long time since he’d seen Hosea this angry, and it had never been directed at him. 

“Hosea,” Dutch said again. “I didn’t...you  _ know  _ I didn’t mean to...Smallcut was suffocating him with a goddamn  _ pillow  _ and I--”  

“Oh, and you thought punching Arthur in the face would help?” 

Dutch felt a rush of completely unjustified anger. Hosea was right, it was purely his fault, his own stupidity, but instinct drove him to defend himself. 

“I was trying to protect him, Hosea!” he argued. “There was a man trying to kill him, and I reacted. I was angry, and I lost control, and...and I thought there was another attacker in the room and I...and I just…” 

Hosea nodded, still cold and calculating, blocking Dutch out. Their eyes met, and Dutch’s knees threatened to give out under the weight of his glare. 

“You’re lucky he’s still alive.” 

Hosea turned, not giving Dutch a chance to respond. Not that he could if he wanted to. Dutch didn’t move, standing in the cold, listening to the door slam shut. 

He stood on the side of the road like a broken statue. His mind was distant, clouded, offering him only the image of the hurt in Arthur’s eyes as he’d crashed to the floor. 

Dutch could clearly see the betrayal in his gaze, the shock, the pain Dutch inflicted only adding to his confusion, the way he clung to John, believing that Dutch was a threat he needed to be protected from. 

He thought Dutch had done it on purpose, that he’d  _ wanted  _ to hurt Arthur. He thought Dutch was going to do it again. 

Dutch blinked away fresh tears as the first pale light of dawn began to streak across the graying sky, hating everything. Hating bounty hunters, hating the poison, hating Brandon Smallcut, hating himself. 

Looking back, he was the only thing he had the right to hate. The whole thing had been his fault, and his alone. 

He’d been too blinded by money and extravagant parties to see the blatant danger, too dense to listen to Arthur’s concerns, too excited to see that something was wrong, that he couldn’t find Arthur, and too slow to act in time. 

And after fighting so hard to come back, after doing everything Dutch needed him to do no matter how painful it was, Arthur had been sent spiraling back into a confused panic, and that was Dutch’s fault, too. 

He started walking, slow and aimless, overwhelmed with the sudden desire to get away, to put as much distance between himself and what he’d done as possible. 

  
  
  
  
Dutch had spent the entire miserable day in Strawberry’s quiet saloon, nursing a drink at the back table, feeling pathetic and sorry for himself, mind overrun with worry and guilt. 

Hosea had walked in sometime during the afternoon, looking exhausted and disheveled. Dutch had searched his friend’s face for any information, hoping the older man would at least have the decency to fill him in on Arthur’s condition.

But Hosea just met Dutch’s eyes from across the room, cold and unresponsive, ordering his drink and sitting down at the edge of the bar.

The saloon was empty at this time of day, aside from the drunk passed out by the window. The bartender wasn’t paying attention, lost in a book, and Dutch cleared his throat. 

“How is he?” 

Hosea sighed, gazing down at his beer, shoulders dropping. 

“Hurting and terrified out of his mind,” he said. “Scaring the hell out of us. It’ll be...better when he doesn’t think you’re trying to kill him.” 

Dutch closed his eyes, swallowing. Hosea let out another breath, sloshing his drink around before setting it back on the bar, untouched. 

“He threw up again,” he said after a moment. Dutch’s heart sank, suddenly reliving that first night. “He hasn’t been able to keep anything down.”

“Oh, god.” Dutch had heard the doctor. He’d said Arthur would be fine if he was able to get food and water and slowly rebuild his strength. If the vomiting was picking up again…

“Doctor says he’s not sure what to do,” Hosea added. The anger from last night was gone, once again replaced with his calm, level-headed demeanor. Dutch could see it cracking. “We, um, we can’t calm him down. We can’t...he...it’s been hours, Dutch. He won’t sleep, he hasn’t eaten anything in almost a week, he’s thrown up what little water we’ve given him, he’s...he’s wasting away.”

“God, Arthur. Hosea, I’m so--” 

“He didn’t recognize me.” Hosea didn’t even seem to hear Dutch, didn’t react when he started towards the bar. “After a few hours after the, uh, after the vomiting finally stopped he didn’t...John and I, he couldn’t...He’s just in so much  _ pain  _ and he...he doesn’t  _ understand. _ ” 

“Hosea…” Dutch wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. Hosea had stayed so strong for him, for everyone, throughout this whole thing. And here he was, trying so hard not to fall apart. Dutch had done this. And he didn’t know how to fix it.

He put a hand on Hosea’s shoulder, half expecting the older man to angrily shove him away. Dutch could hardly blame him after all of this. 

But Hosea just sagged under his touch, dropping his head in his hands, running his fingers through his gray hair.

“We’re going to lose him.” 

It was said so quiet, so defeated, a sickening realization to the both of them. Dutch didn’t move his hand, moving to sit on the stool beside his friend, arm now wrapped around his shoulders. 

Hosea didn’t fight against him, any anger he felt wiped out by his tired sorrow, and the older man leaned closer. His head rested against Dutch, who squeezed Hosea’s arm with his free hand. 

“It’s not your fault, Hosea,” Dutch said, the only thing he could think to say. “I don’t know what else to do but...for the love of god, don’t blame yourself. I did this. I know I caused this, and I swear I will do everything I can.” 

Dutch wasn’t exactly sure what that was anymore, seeing as he couldn't even step into the same room as Arthur without making everything worse. But he wasn’t giving up, not on Arthur. He deserved so much more than that. 

“We can’t lose him.” Hosea’s voice was nothing more than a whisper, under so much strain and fear and dread. Dutch nodded against him. 

“We won’t,” Dutch said. It was a promise, like the ones he’d given Arthur, but this time he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep it. 

 


	9. Chapter 9

The night had once again come and gone, fading away as the dawn rose, the sun beginning its climb for the second time since Arthur had been moved. Since he’d worsened so significantly. 

Two days since Smallcut had tried to...since John hadn’t been there when he’d promised to be. 

He tried not to think about what he had walked in on, tried not to dwell on glances Hosea would shoot him as they kneeled beside Arthur’s bed, tried not to remember how close Arthur had been to making a full recovery and how quickly it had all spiraled downhill. 

Two days since Smallcut attacked, and Arthur was still wide awake and terrified, eyes glassy and bloodshot as they moved frantically around the room, searching blindly, never quite able to see anything. 

The few times John had stood over Arthur he’d seemed to stare straight through the younger, still searching like the room was empty. His shaking would increase, eyes growing impossibly wider, a deeper, wilder fear setting into his unfocused gaze. 

But John never stopped trying, planting himself in the chair beside the bed, praying that Arthur would gain at least some of his awareness back if they just waited it out. 

The doctor had said it was the latest spell of vomiting that had driven Arthur over the edge. He’d already been weak, but the latest attack that had overtaken him had completely worn him out, torturing his already incapacitated body. And now he couldn't keep anything down, no food or water or medicine, and there was no way to start rebuilding his strength. No way to save his life. 

John closed his eyes, listening to Arthur’s panicked breathing. The breaths had grown weaker in the last few hours, quieter, but no less frantic and terrified. 

Arthur couldn’t understand, no matter how much they tried to help. He didn’t know where he was, who was with him or what was happening, just that he was scared and hurting, his struggling growing weaker and weaker every minute. 

John’s mind wandered to the horrible dry heaves that had overwhelmed Arthur soon after Dutch had left, suddenly feeling his own queasiness start to spike. 

He didn’t know how Dutch had managed nearly four days by himself. The vomiting lasted hours, and John wasn’t sure he’d ever been so terrified in his entire life. Seeing Arthur like that had just been so  _ wrong.  _

Arthur had been on the floor, clutching the bucket Hosea held under him, retching and convulsing, involuntary tears running down his flushed face, and John hadn’t known what to do to help. 

Arthur’s whole body had gone stiff, wracked with awful gags and wheezes as he struggled to breathe, the attacks continuing long after his stomach was empty. He’d fought against the pain, crying out, clawing at his throat so viciously Hosea had to hold his arms down. At one point his eyes had locked onto John’s, scared and pleading.

John was pretty sure that was the last time Arthur had recognized him. 

The room suddenly became quiet, and John’s eyes snapped open when he realized Arthur’s breathing had stopped. 

The silence only lasted a second, replaced quickly with an awful gagging, Arthur’s eyes going wide as he arched up. John rushed forward, Arthur too weak to sit up or roll over by himself, barely managing to reach up a hand towards his throat as he choked. 

John ignored Arthur’s flinch when he approached, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him up. He turned Arthur on his side, leaning him over the bed, as he threw up again, quiet cries of pain leaking out in between the heaves. 

“Sorry, Arthur,” John whispered, rubbing Arthur’s back, holding him steady to keep him from toppling over. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know how to help you. But you’re going to be ok, Arthur. Just try to relax.” 

It was useless and he knew it. He’d been trying to get Arthur to listen for hours, sitting at his side all night, desperately hoping Arthur would recognize him and latch onto his voice. 

But he couldn’t. Arthur was too far gone, too terrified to make sense of anything. Dutch had managed it before, but believing his one lifeline had become the enemy had sent Arthur over the edge.  

The new wave of vomiting didn’t last long. Arthur had nothing left in his system to throw up, the few retches only sending him further into exhaustion. He stilled, breathing shallow, and John carefully guided him back against the bed. 

At John’s touch Arthur tensed again, but he was too tired to try and fight back, letting himself be pushed down. John was careful to put him on his side this time, keeping him propped up with extra pillows. 

Arthur was still shaking, each tremor looking like agony, his sickeningly thin face pinching in pain with every breath. A week without food and little water had clearly taken its toll, and John had to resist the urge to reach out and take Arthur’s hand. Any contact had just proved to make Arthur’s panic worsen, wearing him out further. 

John desperately wanted Arthur to sleep. He wanted him to have some relief from the pain and terror, wanted the universe to have some sort of pity, to finally let him sleep, for it to do  _ something  _ to help. 

But another part of him, the selfish part, was terrified that if Arthur closed his eyes he would never open them again. That he’d just drift off silently, and no one would be able to stop it. 

Hosea had suggested a sedative, desperate to put Arthur’s torment to a temporary rest, but the doctor had quickly shot that down. It would likely just induce more vomiting, and he wasn’t sure Arthur’s system could even handle it at this point. 

So they’d sat, listening to what Arthur was forced to endure, his fear and confusion, doing all they could to soothe him, to get him to relax, to stop his panic so he could work on healing again. 

But nothing worked. Arthur didn’t hear them, didn’t see them. John and Hosea couldn’t work Dutch’s miracles, couldn’t even begin to get through to him. 

The way things were going, Arthur was going to fade away in front of them, helpless and scared, and Dutch couldn’t even be in the room while he died. 

John suddenly found himself rubbing at his eyes, his face wet, his chest feeling heavy at the sudden thought. Things weren’t always perfect between them, but they were still family. He’d always viewed Arthur as untouchable, and now he was being forced to watch him die. 

The door suddenly opened and Hosea peered inside, stepping quietly through the threshold. The older man had been in and out of the hotel a few times, and they’d quickly learned that knocking quickly sent Arthur spiraling into a new fit of panic. John could only imagine what his feverish mind was going through. 

“He threw up again,” John said before Hosea had the chance to even open his mouth. “Just a little. I turned him on his side, I didn’t know what to--” 

“You did good,” Hosea assured, hesitating in the doorway. “Is he still awake?” 

John nodded, wiping at his eyes again, hoping Hosea couldn’t tell he had been crying. “Yeah. He’s, uh, there’s no change. He’s gonna...Hosea, he’s just gonna end up exhausting himself.” 

Hosea nodded sadly, achingly calm, and John wondered how the older man was still holding it together. How he hadn’t completely fallen apart when the boy he’d raised as a son, the boy he loved like family was slipping away in front of him. 

He finally stepped inside, and John caught sight of Dutch, looking worried and uncomfortable, hovering in the doorway. 

“Christ, Dutch.” John was on his feet, moving to the end of the bed to block Arthur’s view. “I know you’re worried, but it’s not a good idea for you to be--” 

“John, it’s ok,” Hosea said. “Let him in.” 

“Are you crazy?” John immediately felt guilty, hating how crestfallen Dutch looked. But he’d seen what Dutch had done, on purpose or not, and how Arthur’s broken mind was interpreting it. “You saw how he reacted last time!” 

“I can fix this John,” Dutch said. “Let me talk to him, I can...I need to fix what I’ve done. He’s dying because of  _ me _ .” 

“Jesus, Dutch, that’s not…” John trailed off, swallowed, looking instead to Hosea. “You sure about this? We might just end up making it worse.” 

“Worse than  _ this?”  _ Hosea asked. “You said it yourself, John. He’s going to exhaust himself. If we don’t get him to calm down he won’t...he’s barely...he’ll…” 

And just like that the act dropped, Hosea’s calm demeanor crumbling, the desperation he’d held back for so long finally surfacing, like the very real prospect of Arthur’s death was fully sinking in, despite how strongly he’d faced it since the beginning. His strength had been for their sakes, not his. 

“John,” Dutch said. He still sounded scared, but a hint of his old confidence was seeping into his tone. “I’ll try to get through to him again. I know...he remembers what I did, but...he needs to know he’s safe. If he doesn’t...if it goes bad I’ll leave. He’ll never have to see me again.” 

John suddenly felt weightless, his legs threatening to give out under days old stress. He knew that Arthur thinking Dutch had hurt him was almost as painful as the idea of Arthur not making it at all. 

John nodded, doubting he would have had much of a say in the matter had he decided to argue, and stepped aside to let Dutch see the bed. 

He might as well have punched the man in the gut, Dutch sucking in a shocked, quiet breath as his gaze landed on Arthur, and John could see the tears begin to form in his eyes. He didn’t blame him, Arthur had been so close to recovering just a few days ago. 

Arthur’s eyes widened when he saw Dutch, too weak to do much of anything else. John had to resist stepping in between them again as Dutch raised his hands and stepped forward. 

He moved slow, non threateningly, but Arthur still let out a quiet whimper as he approached. It tore through John’s heart, and Dutch visibly faltered. 

“Arthur,” Dutch said, sounding so broken and desperate. “It’s me. It’s me, Arthur. I’m not going to hurt you, son.” 

Arthur just shrank further back, as much as he could manage, eyes briefly scanning the room as if to make sure he wasn’t alone. John saw Dutch swallow, struggling to watch Arthur search blindly for the protection he thought he needed.

Dutch took another step, now standing beside the bed. Arthur was trembling, frozen, eyes glued to him once again, waiting. 

John knew Arthur didn’t recognize Dutch, still had no idea who any of them were, but his panicking mind had identified Dutch as the man who had struck him. Maybe even the man who tried to kill him. 

Dutch sank into a crouch, arms still raised where Arthur could see them, blocking out the rest of the world as he spoke. 

“Arthur.” He wasn’t even trying to keep his voice from shaking. “God...you need to snap out of this. Arthur, you hear me? You need to come back. I know you’ve already done so much but you...you’re going to get yourself  _ killed  _ and we…” 

He broke off with a shaky breath, but he didn’t look away. Dutch was the first person Arthur had actually been able to see in hours. John wasn’t sure that was a good thing. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Dutch said again when Arthur’s already shallow breath hitched before speeding up. “I won’t...I-I know you’re scared, but...you’ve got us all really worried. I know you don’t understand what’s happening but I need you to come back to us. You’ve already fought so hard, and I’m so sorry, Arthur, but you need to hear me.” 

Dutch reached forward, immediately pulling back, defeated, when the motion made Arthur flinch. 

“Arthur, _ please.”  _ His constant faith in Arthur, the trust that always seemed to go both ways was the only thing that was keeping Dutch going now. Any other man would have given up long ago. Most men wouldn’t have tried. 

John felt Hosea touch his shoulder, offering the silent comfort they both needed, and John wiped at the traitorous tears on his cheeks that he couldn’t seem to control. 

“It’s me, Arthur,” Dutch was saying, Arthur still watching him, petrified. “It’s  _ me.  _ Listen to me, Arthur,  _ really  _ listen. Just like I told you before. Look at me. You’re safe, I promise. You are  _ safe _ now, Arthur. I won’t let anyone hurt you again. Nobody is going to hurt you. Do you remember what I said? I told you that you’d be ok. I promised you’d make it through this. So I need you to keep fighting. I need you to come back.” 

If anyone could keep fighting, if anyone could break away from this and make it out alive, it was Arthur. John knew that, but he knew what it would do to their family if Arthur didn’t make it through this. If he died here, terrified, believing he was alone, in an awful tourist town from some rich man’s poison slipped into his drink.  

But John’s hope, as much as he was trying to hold onto it, was fading fast, replaced with grief and guilt and dread. Because Dutch’s words, determined as they were, weren’t having any effect. No recognition sparked in Arthur’s eyes. 

Dutch inched forward, careful, deflating completely when the only response was a single tear sliding down’s Arthur’s face, his shaking worsening. 

“I’m here, Arthur,” Dutch said, but John could hear his broken defeat. “Right here. Just keep breathing. You’ve...you’ve done real good, son. You...you’re safe. I’m here, Arthur. I promise I’m right here.” 

More tears had fallen from Arthur’s wavering eyes, his paralyzed glance cloudy and almost ghost-like. Dutch didn’t even move to wipe his own watery eyes. 

John realized this was Dutch saying goodbye. 

Another moment passed in silence, John fighting back a sob each second Arthur remained unresponsive. Dutch hung his head, eerily quiet, rising to his feet and turning away from the bed. 

John opened his mouth to say something, to offer some sort of comfort that would be absolutely no help to anyone, but Hosea squeezed his shoulder, silencing him. John nodded, rubbing at his eyes again, doubting he would have even been heard at all.

Dutch’s eyes were clouded, lost deep in thought. He looked, in that awful moment, nearly as far gone as Arthur. 

He stopped a few paces from the door, finally looking up to glance at John and Hosea, looking so unbelievably lost and empty that John almost didn’t recognize him. 

John took in a shuddering breath, tearing his gaze away to look at Hosea, wondering what the hell they were supposed to do now. 

They were silent, unmoving, Dutch looking like he was still struggling to fight against the resignation, the fact that he’d lost, the consequences losing would bring. 

If the room hadn't been so deathly silent, John doubted any of them would have heard it. It was so quiet and small, weak and almost nonexistent, for a second he thought he might have imagined it. 

But Dutch’s head snapped up, the clouds fading from his eyes, his body going tense at the tiny noise from the bed. 

“D... _ Dutch?”  _

Dutch was back at the bedside in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees. John shared a quick glance with Hosea, allowing himself to dare to be hopeful, straining to hear Dutch’s gentle voice. 

“I’m here, Arthur,” he promised. “I’m still here. You hear me?” 

Arthur didn’t respond, his trembling didn’t die down. He only blinked, slow and sluggish, but John thought that for the first time he was actually looking at  _ Dutch.  _ Not through him, and not at the man who had tried to hurt him. 

“That’s it, Arthur,” Dutch said. “I’m right here, I promise. You’re ok, son, you’re going to be ok. I’m right here.” 

Arthur blinked again before moving as much as he could, pulling his hand from his chest and slowly stretching it towards Dutch, who gave a relieved smile. He reached forward to grasp Arthur’s hand, squeezing gently, and the crazed panic began to fade.

“D…” Arthur gasped, squeezing his eyes shut, and John saw Dutch stiffen. “Wh...where--” 

“You’re safe,” Dutch said, frantic, but a bit of his confidence was returning.  “I know you’re scared and you don’t understand, but you’re safe, son. I’m right here with you.” 

Arthur swallowed, the action causing him to wince, and John’s heart threatened to burst through his chest. He still looked so  _ weak.  _ As painful as it was to think about, regaining awareness might not be enough to save his life. By the look in Hosea’s eyes, John knew he was thinking the same thing. 

“Arthur,” Dutch continued. “I want you to have some water. You think you can do that?” 

“Dutch,” Hosea warned. “You think that’s--” 

Arthur’s eyes broke away from Dutch’s to land on the man at the other side of the room, and Hosea fell silent. 

“Hos...H--” He could barely manage the word, breaking off in a ragged wheeze. John doubted he could make out much of anything, but he looked desperate to know if the voice he heard was real. 

“I’m here, Arthur,” Hosea said, lip trembling as he tried and failed to keep his voice steady. “We’re all here.” 

John was reluctantly resigned to keep quiet, terrified of Arthur trying to talk again. But then his eyes, bloodshot and watery, moved to lock onto John, finally seeing him for the first time in hours. 

John smiled, face wet with fresh tears he couldn’t bring himself to wipe away. “Hey, Arthur.” 

Arthur held his gaze for a moment longer, John still overwhelmed by the fact that Arthur actually knew they were here, before he looked back to Dutch, still shaking and confused, but no longer scared. 

“Wh- _ what…?”  _

“It’s ok,” Dutch soothed. “You’re ok, Arthur. You’re hurt...you’re hurt pretty bad, but...you’re going to be fine. Isn’t he, Hosea?” 

Hosea nodded, still unsure but desperate to be hopeful. “He’ll be alright.”  

Arthur, still dazed and unfocused, managed a tiny nod. John let out a breath and closed his eyes, feeling some of the weight release from his shoulders. 

“Can you drink some water for me?” Dutch asked again. “Just a little bit. Only if you think you can keep it down.” 

It took a minute before Arthur managed another nod, and Hosea hurried out of the room to grab a glass. Dutch began to help Arthur sit up against the pillows, careful and gentle. John just watched, frozen, worried that if he moved he would break the connection Dutch had, by some miracle, managed to achieve. 

Every little movement seemed to just worsen Arthur’s already unbearable agony, but he looked determined to keep going, John beginning to recognize the stubborn man he was still so close to losing. 

Dutch was inching closer and closer, slowly, still looking terrified of setting Arthur off. By the time Hosea came back Dutch had ended up on the bed, Arthur seeming calmer the closer the other man was, his back against the headboard with Arthur resting against his chest. 

He was still shaking, still looking more dead than alive, but John couldn’t have asked for anything more. Arthur was calming down, he was becoming aware, and they were going to do everything they could to bring him back. 

Hosea brought Dutch the glass of water, barely filled halfway, and Dutch carefully guided it towards Arthur propped against him. 

“Just give him a little bit,” Hosea cautioned. “We can’t risk any more than that.” 

John wanted to argue that Arthur needed as much as he could possibly get in the little time he’d been given, but he kept his mouth shut, knowing Hosea was right. If Arthur threw up again it could undo all of Dutch’s work. His body couldn’t handle much more abuse in this state. 

Arthur sputtered and coughed as soon as the water reached his mouth, too weak to swallow properly, but with Dutch’s help he managed a couple tiny mouthfuls before pulling away, hissing against the pain in his throat. 

“That’s good, Arthur. You’re doing good. Drink some more in a little while, alright?” 

Arthur only responded with a quiet groan, all fight and energy seeming to leave his body as he slumped against Dutch, who carefully adjusted his hold. 

Arthur’s eyes started to close, and Dutch’s worry mirrored in John and Hosea when he briefly met their gaze. 

“He needs to sleep,” Hosea said. “We haven’t gotten him to relax in days. We just have to...hope for the best now.” 

Dutch nodded, looking back down at Arthur, still trembling in his hold. The room stayed silent as Arthur’s shallow breaths grew almost peaceful, despite how ragged and unnatural they sounded. 

“Get some rest, Arthur,” Dutch said after a moment. “I’ll be right here when you wake up. I promise I won’t go anywhere.” 

John heard the unspoken words, Dutch’s silent begging for Arthur to wake up again, for this not to be the last time they saw each other. John heard it in his own mind, the overwhelming need to see Arthur walk away from this.

But Arthur remained motionless, the wheezing breaths the only sign that he was even still alive. Dutch closed his eyes and leaned his head against the bed, wrapping his arm protectively around Arthur’s chest. 

John swallowed and looked to Hosea, a new spark of hope he’d been so sure he lost now setting off in his chest. All they could do now was wait.  


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur didn’t wake slow this time, it wasn’t a gradual rise into consciousness, the pain slowly leaking in as his senses came back to him. 

This time he was jolted awake in an instant, thrown into the light of the world without warning, the pain spreading immediately. He tried to cry out against it, but his voice wouldn’t work, his throat dry and tight.

He couldn’t move, feeling like his body was buried under layers of dirt, his limbs heavy and aching, and his head pounding. 

Arthur blinked through the clouds swarming his mind, the simple motion creating new waves of white hot pain, his surroundings blurring. 

He was just able to make out that he was laying on a bed, a thin blanket draped over his legs, propped up against something sturdy. The wall against his back was moving gently, rising and falling, and it wasn’t until Arthur heard the gentle breaths above his head that he realized he was leaned against someone’s chest. 

He still couldn’t move, arms limp at his sides, but he managed a breathy gasp, eyes watering at how powerless he felt. The person behind him was moving and Arthur’s breath hitched, chest feeling dizzyingly tight. 

“Arthur?” 

The man behind him moved aside, guiding Arthur back to lay by himself against a pillow. There was a hand Arthur couldn’t see on his shoulder, another cupping the back of his head. 

Dutch’s face swam into focus, and Arthur tried to reign in his panic, to slow down his painful breathing. He tried to call out, to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, but his mouth wouldn’t move and he couldn’t reach up a hand towards the man above him.  

“Arthur?” Dutch said again, squeezing his shoulder. “That’s it, just breathe. Keep breathing. Can you hear me?” 

Arthur tried to nod, but everything still felt heavy and useless, and he could only meet Dutch’s worried eyes. 

“God, Arthur. You’re going to be alright. Just stay with me, ok?”

Arthur, still unable to even move his head, could only stare up into Dutch’s blatantly terrified eyes, listen to the fear in his voice, and try to make sense of everything. 

“Is he awake?” Hosea’s voice rang out somewhere around him, sounding just as shaky and scared as Dutch. 

“Yeah,” Dutch said. “Yeah, he’s...Oh,  _ god _ , Arthur…” 

“He still don’t look good.” John’s voice this time, blunt and aggressive, but Arthur knew him well enough to detect the younger man’s fear, even if he still couldn’t see him. 

“Does he...know who you are?” Arthur heard Hosea ask, the question only adding to the confusion making his head spin. 

“I think so,” Dutch said, Arthur’s eyes still locked onto his. “Arthur, you seeing me?” 

Arthur didn’t quite understand the question, but Dutch looked so desperate for an answer like it was the most important thing in the world. But he still couldn’t move, only able to offer a sluggish blink. He didn’t even have the strength to whimper against the pain. 

“Thank god,” Dutch said, and Arthur tried to relax in the knowledge that he’d managed to do something right. “We’re gonna help you. I swear, Arthur. Just hang in there. Try to relax.” 

“You need to drink some more water, Arthur,” Hosea said, the older man now right beside him, another hand on his shoulder. “We’re going to help you sit up, alright? Just stay calm, we’re right here.” 

Everyone sounded terrified, treating Arthur like he was a fragile piece of glass just seconds away from shattering completely, and at the moment that was exactly how Arthur felt. 

He was guided forward, his body screaming with each movement. He felt useless and heavy and tired, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep where the pain didn’t exist. 

But suddenly there was a glass being shoved against his mouth, Hosea talking gently as he tried to get Arthur to swallow the water. 

He wanted to pull away, to tell Hosea that drinking would only increase his discomfort. But he couldn’t move, much less talk, and Dutch was in front of him, practically begging Arthur to do as he was told. 

Swallowing hurt even worse than he had expected, but the water was cool and soothing against his raw, aching throat, and Arthur wondered how long it had been since he’d had something to drink. 

The cup was pulled away too soon, Arthur barely getting in a couple sips before it was gone. He was being eased back against the pillows again and he couldn’t stop his eyes from closing, his whole body completely drained. 

“Arthur?” Dutch called from behind the resurfacing haze. “You still with us, son?” 

He wasn’t. The haze grew heavier and heavier, pushing him back down as the darkness encroached him again, the pain dispersing, leaving him in a senseless void as everything faded away. 

  
  


The next time Arthur opened his eyes the pain had intensified, dragging him into the waking world, his stomach on fire and his chest feeling like it was being crushed _.  _

He gasped, the noise sounding horrible to his own ears, getting only searing pain in his lungs instead of air. Arthur tried to reach for his chest and throat, to rip off whatever was depriving him of oxygen, but he still couldn’t  _ move.  _

He could only lay there, wheezing and choking as the pressure on his chest grew tighter, his face now wet with tears. 

“Oh, god! Arthur!” 

It took a moment for Arthur to process Dutch’s voice through the pain, barely able to make it out as he struggled to breathe. 

Dutch was shushing him, carefully pulling him away from the pillows, and Arthur briefly caught sight of his terrified eyes through his blurred vision. 

“Arthur, try to calm down. It’s ok, you’re ok. Just relax. Breathe, Arthur.  _ Breathe.  _ Jesus, Arthur, don’t do this to me. We’re so close. You need to breathe for me, son.” 

There was a hand in his hair, another on his back, holding him against Dutch’s chest. Arthur was still gasping against him, doing everything he could to pull in air he couldn’t seem to get, Dutch’s hold tightening with each awful noise. 

“Listen to me, Arthur,” Dutch said. “Focus on me. I’m right here, I’ve got you. I’m going to help you but you have to keep breathing. Just take a breath, Arthur. It’ll be over soon, just keep fighting for me.”

Arthur tried to listen, but he found himself focused instead on the rise and fall of Dutch’s chest, hearing the man’s breathing, panicked as it was, and did his best to copy it. 

It was a few more seconds of painful gasping, lungs still empty, before Arthur was able to get his first breath in. It was shallow and raspy, his chest squeezing and rattling as he pulled in as much air as he could. But he was breathing, finally getting air, and he felt Dutch begin to relax. 

“There you go, Arthur. You’re doing good.” 

They shoved more water down his throat, soothing and gentle, but entirely against his will. The liquid was agony sliding against his throat, swallowing feeling like knives dancing along his neck. 

It only took a few sips to send him into a brief coughing fit, Dutch’s hold becoming desperate as he squeezed his eyes shut. He was just able to make out Hosea’s voice, the older man’s hand on his as they waited it out. 

The coughing subsided, leaving him shaking and gasping once again, sore and exhausted as he fell limp against the arms holding him up. 

“You ok, Arthur?” 

He didn’t even have time to process the question he had no answer to before he was veiled in the dark again, the world melting away and taking the pain with it. 

  
  


The next time was the first time he hadn’t awoken to blinding pain, instead pushed gently into consciousness as his senses came back to him. The pain was still there, a constant weakening presence, but it was significantly less prominent than it had been before. 

Arthur blinked his eyes open, squinting against the darkness. He was still leaned against Dutch’s chest, the other man’s breaths slow and almost relaxed. He took a breath and tried to move his head, just able to tilt his chin before the pain began to worsen again. 

He could make out Dutch, propped up on pillows and hunched over Arthur, eyes closed and face slack as he finally slept. Arthur, though his head was fuzzy, doubted he’d gotten much rest lately. 

“He drifted off about an hour ago,” Hosea’s voice said, and Arthur moved his head back to meet the older man’s eyes. He looked tired, just as worn out as Dutch. “About time. For a while he looked almost as bad as you do.” 

Arthur blinked and swallowed, eyes watering at the pain that still lingered in his throat. He couldn’t reply, only able to let out a tiny gasp of air that made Hosea frown. 

“Do you feel... _ any  _ better?” He sounded on the verge of panic, barely holding it together with his forced calm, terrified by Arthur’s inability to respond. 

Arthur swallowed again, fighting through the stabbing pain, forcing his voice around the knives shoved down his throat. 

“H... _ Hosea…”  _ It was quiet and pathetic, not even loud enough to stir Dutch, but it was just enough to put Hosea at ease. 

“Right,” he said. “Sorry, Arthur. Rest your voice. You can go back to sleep after you drink some more water, alright?” 

Arthur tried to shake his head. Talking had practically shredded the inside of his throat, and trying to swallow would only make it worse.  

But he couldn’t find any more strength, and he knew better than to argue with Hosea even if he could. 

The older man put a steadying hand on his shoulder, Arthur watching him blankly as the cup was brought up to his chin and tipped into his mouth. He hated not being able to move, too weak and tired to even lift his hand to help. 

“Just be patient, Arthur,” Hosea said as if he could read his thoughts. “I know it feels awful, but it’ll be over soon. Just keep resting.” 

The wall behind Arthur shifted, Dutch’s breaths quickening as he stiffened, a hand instinctively moving across Arthur’s chest. 

“Arthur?” 

“He’s fine Dutch,” Hosea assured, flashing Arthur a gentle smile. “Just giving him some water. Go back to sleep.” 

He felt Dutch move, slow and careful not to jostle Arthur too much. Hosea sighed and pulled the glass away. He’d let him drink more than before, and Arthur squeezed his eyes shut as the throbbing in his throat started up again. 

“How is he?” Dutch asked.

“He’s getting there. He’s not...he’s not great but he’s better. He’s  _ getting  _ better. He’ll...he’s falling asleep again.” 

Arthur hadn’t even realized his eyes were slipping shut, the heavy clouds returning to push him back down, Dutch’s breaths lulling him into serenity.

“He hasn’t been able to stay awake for very long,” Dutch said, his hand moving to Arthur’s forehead. 

“That’s normal,” Hosea replied. “I think it’s normal. He’s exhausted, Dutch, he needs the rest. He probably doesn’t even remember the worst of it.” 

Dutch sighed, hand still resting on Arthur’s head. His hand was freezing cold against his skin, but Arthur couldn’t even flinch against it. 

“He’s still got a fever.” Dutch pulled his hand away and let out a breath, shuddering and scared. Arthur wondered if Dutch knew he was still awake. “God, Hosea...what if he--?”

“Just give him some time,” Hosea said. “You got through to him, Dutch. He’s still fighting because you told him to. Just let him slowly start to regain his strength and he’ll come back, Dutch. This time I know he will.” 

Arthur, suddenly determined to reassure them both, tried to pull away from the hold the darkness had, to speak again despite how his mind screamed at him not to. 

But trying only evoked a new wave of agony, shoving him under the waves of unconsciousness and everything faded out.

  
  


Everything ached when he became aware again, the blankets feeling tight and constricting against his sore body. He could move his head and open his eyes, despite the mild discomfort it brought, and his heart fluttered with relief when he was able to lift his arms and hands. 

Arthur still felt vaguely like he’d been thrown off the roof of a three story building, but it was still a vast improvement to what he remembered the last time he’d woken up. 

The room was quiet, the curtains drawn tightly over the window, specks of sunlight seeping into the otherwise dark room. It took Arthur a moment to notice, but he was lying flat on his back in the now empty bed. 

He struggled to sit up, trying to push down his panic when he realized there wasn’t anyone sitting in the chair beside him anymore. Arthur propped himself up on his elbows, wincing at his body’s protests, eyes flying to the door when it creaked open. 

Dutch stepped inside, looking drained and disheveled, his stress and exhaustion practically radiating off him as he dragged himself back in the room.  

His eyes widened in alarm as soon as he saw Arthur, instantly alert as he hurried forward, arms raised like Dutch was worried about startling him. 

“Hey, sorry. Sorry, Arthur. I’m right here, I didn’t go anywhere.” 

Arthur nodded, silently berating himself for getting so worked up, and began to ease himself back down. Dutch was back at his side, helping him lean against the pillows. 

“Sorry,” he said again. “I just stepped out for a minute, I didn’t think--” 

“S’ ok, Dutch,” Arthur said, surprising himself with the sound of his own voice. It sounded awful, shaky and hoarse, but at least he could talk. “I-I know you didn’t...didn’t leave.” 

Dutch looked beyond relieved, some of the light returning to his eyes as his shoulders visibly relaxed. 

“It’s good to hear your voice, son,” he said. “How’re you feeling?” 

“I’m still alive,” Arthur said, earning a dry smile and a nod. He cleared his throat, swallowing against the ever-present dryness. “How, uh...how long have I been…” He trailed off, but Dutch got the message. 

“The party was almost two weeks ago,” Dutch explained, eyes softening when Arthur’s brow furrowed. “We moved you here five days ago. Do you...Arthur, how much do you remember?” 

Arthur’s head was still fuzzy, but the haze was clearing and he found himself shuddering at what little he could make out.

“I remember getting sick at...at the party,” Arthur said, clearing his throat again. “And, uh, the bounty hunters tracking us down. We were...we were in a forest and…” 

He stopped, the image of the man pinning him down coming back to him in a flash, hands pressing down on his throat, cutting off his air and leaving him defenseless as agony wracked his body. 

Arthur hadn’t even realized he’d reached up to touch his throat until Dutch grabbed his wrist, cautious and gentle, guiding it back down to the bed. 

“We got you to the doctor,” Dutch said. “It was...it was close, Arthur. Really close. You almost didn’t...you wouldn’t wake up. There was nothing we could do except wait. It took you...it was almost four days before you started improving.” 

Arthur saw the way his eyes wavered, how he clenched his jaw and looked away, and knew there was more he wasn’t saying. 

“What happened?” he asked, and Dutch sighed. 

“Smallcut tracked us down,” he said. “We...we made a mistake, Arthur. We thought you’d be ok and we left you alone. Just for a few minutes, but...he tried to kill you. He almost  _ did.  _ But-” he paused, blinking, like he was trying to figure out what to say. “-uh, John got there just in time. Saved your life.” 

Arthur nodded, vaguely remembering John being at his side, trying to be as comforting and in control as possible. He thought he remembered John sounding angry, yelling something Arthur’s mind couldn’t quite piece together yet. 

“Smallcut dead?” Arthur asked, the stinging in his throat growing more evident each time he spoke. 

“No,” Dutch said. “No, he, uh, he got away. He was long gone by the time I got to you, and John didn’t want to leave you alone to go after him. You...you worsened pretty badly after that.” 

“How bad?” 

Dutch sighed again, running a hand over his face. “You were just...scared. You were terrified, Arthur. Of everything. You couldn’t make sense of what you were seeing, you couldn’t...you couldn’t recognize any of us. You wouldn’t sleep or drink water for two  _ days.  _ And when we finally got you to calm down we didn’t think you’d wake up. I thought I was watching you die in your sleep, Arthur.” 

“But you got through to me,” Arthur pointed out, remembering Hosea’s distant words. “I’m ok, Dutch.” 

“You almost weren’t,” Dutch muttered. “Even after you woke up you couldn’t  _ stay  _ awake and nobody was sure if you were going to--” 

_ “Dutch.”  _ He couldn’t be forceful without killing what little of his voice he had, but he reached out to take Dutch’s hand, his grip weak, and the other man fell silent. “I’m  _ ok.  _ Just like...just like you promised I would be. What happened ain’t your fault.” 

Dutch was watching him, his eyes sad and tired. He looked like he wanted to argue, but Arthur suspected he simply didn’t have the energy. He couldn’t help but feel there was something Dutch wasn’t telling him. 

“We can’t stay here much longer,” was the only thing the man said, and Arthur nodded. “I think we’ve pushed our luck. I don’t want anyone else coming after us.” 

“I’m not sure I can make it on a horse right now,” Arthur warned, and Dutch shook his head. 

“John and Hosea went out to get us a wagon,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of you traveling at all, but Hosea says this is the safest way to do it. We’ll just have to get you down the stairs.”

“I think I can manage.” 

Dutch nodded, rubbing his eyes. He stood, moving to the chair beside the bed. Arthur wondered how many hours he and Hosea had spent there. “You’ll probably have a while until they get back. Get some more rest.” 

Arthur nodded, letting his aching head fall back against the pillows. Dutch was still watching him, his eyes heavy, his head resting against his hand. 

“You should do the same,” Arthur said, coughing again when his throat tightened. “You look awful.” 

Dutch just hummed, crossing his legs and leaning back, never closing his eyes. “I’ll see you when you wake up, Arthur.” 

Arthur nodded, letting his eyes drift shut, his body still weak and empty. It took longer for the darkness to regain his hold on him, the world slowly fading to a dull hum. 

  
  


It was hard enough for Arthur to get out of bed, even with Dutch and Hosea helping, but getting down the porch steps proved to be nearly impossible. 

The pain had returned as soon as he tried to stand, spreading through his body in agonizing waves. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been, but the fact that he’d barely moved for nearly two weeks was becoming painfully obvious. Arthur felt like his bones had been replaced with water, his legs shaking like he was a newborn fawn. 

“Almost there, Arthur, almost there,” Dutch was saying in his ear. His hold on Arthur was almost as painful as walking, but his presence was a comfort and Arthur said nothing. 

“There we go,” Hosea said, gentle and encouraging. “One more step, Arthur. Just keep going, you can make it.” 

Arthur nodded, determined to make the short distance. He still felt awful, and he’d lost so much weight Dutch could probably carry him all the way to the wagon without breaking a sweat. He was glad the other man knew better than to offer. 

“Where the hell is John?” Dutch suddenly demanded as Arthur’s feet found the dirt road. He could see the wagon now, the horses waiting, the inside strewn with blankets and pillows. 

“No idea,” Hosea said. “We’ll deal with it in a minute, just get him on the wagon before he falls over.” 

Arthur didn’t even have it in him to argue, letting himself practically be dragged the rest of the way and hoisted onto the back of the wagon. It took everything in him not to fall over backwards as soon as he was seated. 

“Dammit, Marston,” Arthur muttered. The sooner they could get out of this town and he could go back to sleep the better. He just wanted to forget any of this had happened. 

_ “Dutch!”  _

John’s voice rang out through the quiet street, and Arthur’s head snapped up when he recognized the rage in the young man’s voice. The sun was beginning to set, the streets growing quiet, and he hoped they’d have some privacy to deal with whatever had John so upset.

Dutch and Hosea turned, both men growing tense, and Arthur’s blood ran cold as he registered the nearing scene. 

John was storming towards the wagon, his gun pressed against the head of Brandon Smallcut, roughly pulling the short man along. 

Smallcut’s one eye wide and filled with unshed tears, the other swollen completely shut. He was covered in bruises, clothes rumpled and stained with his own dried blood. The injuries looked days old at least, and Arthur wondered how he had possibly managed to get away the first time. 

Smallcut looked even more pathetic than he had at that party. He was nothing but a short, blubbering, injured man with a gun at his head. He was a threat to no one. 

And yet Arthur still felt a sickening sense of dread when he saw the man that had put him through his torment, the fear sinking deep into his gut and spreading through his abused body. 

He hadn’t even realized he’d started trembling until Hosea was at his side, a hand squeezing Arthur’s arm, eyes soft and knowing. “It’s ok. We’ll take care of it.” 

Arthur nodded. “Help me stand.” 

“Arthur, you shouldn’t--” 

“Hosea, please.” It didn’t matter if he wound up leaned against the older man, unable to keep from swaying while his shaking grew painful. He needed to be standing. He needed to stand with his family and put an end to this. He didn’t want Smallcut to see what he’d done. “Help me stand.” 

Hosea, like always, seemed to understand. Getting Arthur off the wagon was a process, his knees almost giving out from under him as soon as he hit the ground, Hosea just able to catch him and hold him upright as John continued his furious approach. 

“M-m-Mr. Van der Linde!” Smallcut greeted, smiling, close to hysterics, and John came to a sudden stop in front of the hotel. 

Dutch hadn’t moved, hadn't even turned when Arthur struggled off the wagon. He stood, unnaturally still, watching Smallcut like a hawk. Arthur wasn’t even sure he was breathing. 

“Saw him across the road,” John explained, pushing the barrel of the gun against the short man’s skull. “Watching us. Piece of shit should have run when he had the chance.” 

“I doubt it would have done him much good,” Dutch growled, and Brandon Smallcut paled. 

“S-sir!” he protested. “I-I-I  _ did  _ run, but I...I came back to...to-to offer you help and--M-Mr. Morgan! Y-you look...you’re still standing which is...is...Mr. Morgan I am  _ very  _ sorry about the whole ordeal and I hope we c-can--” 

_ “Hey!”  _ John shout made Smallcut jump, tears running down his face when the gun against his head was cocked. 

“Do  _ not _ talk to him,” Dutch snapped, moving to step in front of Arthur. “Don’t  _ look  _ at him. You tried to kill him and you think you can make up for it with an  _ apology?”  _

Smallcut blanched, John tightening his grip. “Mr. V-Van der Linde, I-I came back to--” 

“Oh, come on,” John scoffed. “You just came back to try and save yourself. That last bounty hunter will track you down the second he finds out you failed.” 

“N-no,  _ no!  _  I--” Smallcut paused, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them again, his terrified gaze glued to Dutch. “He-he’s long gone, sir. I swear. He won't be any more trouble to either of us.” 

“Good,” Dutch said. “And in a moment, neither will you.” 

Smallcut whimpered, and the noise only seemed to make Dutch more angry. “P- _ please.  _ Mr. Van der Linde just...just let me go. You’ll never s-see me again, I swear! H-he’s not dead! He didn’t die! Th-there was no harm done, so--” 

“No  _ harm done?”  _ Dutch exploded. “Do you have any  _ idea  _ what you did to him?” 

“It wasn’t me!” Brandon insisted. “It was those bounty hunters, I told you they  _ made _ me! Th-they-they wanted to--” 

“The poison was  _ your  _ idea,” John snarled. 

“Th-the, the poison...yes,  _ yes  _ the poison w-was my idea. B-but it was them...I-I just didn’t want any bloodshed i-in my house, sir. That’s all, I swear I...they were going to kill him anyway and I…”  

Smallcut was on the verge of sobbing, stammering and tripping over his words, and suddenly the scene wasn’t satisfying. It was just sad. Killing him would do nothing but bring them more trouble they didn’t need. 

Arthur turned to say so to Dutch, but the other man was yelling before he had the chance, Dutch's voice probably attracting every lawman in town. 

“Stop crying, Smallcut,” he ordered. “You’re a pathetic little coward and you don’t get to  _ cry _ . You don’t get to beg for forgiveness. You toyed with a man’s life,  _ tortured him,  _ tortured the people who love him and you  _ still _ think you’re the only thing that matters?”   

Smallcut’s face fell, the tears slowing as Dutch grew louder. Arthur sighed, reaching forward to touch Dutch’s shoulder. 

“Dutch--” 

“ _ What,  _ Arthur? _ ”  _

He was already pulling away before Dutch even finished turning around, stomach dropping when the other man’s eyes landed on him, gaze lined with venom and blind rage. Arthur flinched, a new pain spiking in his face. There was the flash of an image, a hazy and unclear memory of a hand moving to strike him. Hosea’s arm shifted to tighten around his chest, protecting him. From Dutch. 

The pieces started to fall into place, and Arthur tried to get ahold of his breathing. Smallcut’s eyes widened, taking in the scene. 

“S-see, Mr. Morgan?” he called, pointing to Dutch. “It was him! Th-the bounty hunters  _ forced  _ me b-but he  _ hurt  _ you. He’s the one! I saw him do it, sir, I  _ watched  _ him hurt you, he--” 

“Shut  _ up!”  _ John pressed the gun deeper into Smallcut’s skin, his hands shaking with anger, but Arthur could see the brief flash of hesitation. 

His scattered mind tried to remember, tried to make sense of what Brandon was saying, but he could only grasp onto the memories and flashes of pain. Of someone hurting him. Of Dutch’s voice, always a constant presence. 

Arthur furrowed his brow, shaking his head as his eyes dropped to the ground. Dutch hadn’t hurt him. No, whatever he was remembering was wrong. They were just fragments, scattered and jumbled and entirely incorrect. Dutch wouldn’t...Dutch had never…

A gunshot broke off his racing thoughts and he jumped, Hosea tightening his grip with one hand, the other holding the smoking gun. 

John jumped back as soon as the gun went off, arms raised. 

Smallcut went stiff, mouth open before he collapsed to the floor, face slamming into the dirt, blood spreading across his already ruined suit. Brandon let out a couple desperate, pitiful gasps, managing to turn over on his side before falling limp, eyes closing, and Hosea lowered his gun. 

“Jesus,” John muttered, watching the blood seep into the dirt road. 

“What?” Hosea asked, slipping his gun back into its holster with ease. “All that and you were thinking of letting him  _ live?  _ Let’s get out of here before the law shows up. Doctor?” 

Arthur hadn’t even noticed the man standing on the porch, the doctor drawn outside by the commotion. He held up his hands and shook his head. 

“Never seen you folk in my life,” he assured. “Not with what you’re paying me.” 

Dutch nodded, satisfied. He looked to Arthur, who avoided his gaze as Hosea led him back to the awaiting wagon, John hurrying to calm the horses. 

“Come on,” Hosea said. “Let’s get you home.” 

Dutch, the anger beginning to leave his eyes, rushed forward to help. He reached out, but Hosea’s hold only tightened as he helped Arthur climb onto the back of the wagon. 

“I got him.” The older man spoke curtly, and Dutch’s arms fell to his side. He swallowed, biting back a response, and turned instead to John. 

“Sit in the back with him,” he instructed, and Arthur tried to ignore the dejection in his voice. “Make sure he keeps drinking water. If there’s any change  _ tell  _ us.” 

John nodded, hurrying around to the back. “Sure, Dutch.” 

“Thank you, son.” 

He sounded exhausted and scared, like he still believed he was on the verge of losing Arthur. He watched Hosea settle him down against the pillows, throwing a blanket over his chest. Arthur said nothing. He and Dutch could work it out when he wasn’t seconds from passing out again. 

“What about the body?” John asked. 

Dutch made his way to the front of the wagon, climbing into the driver’s seat as Hosea followed. “Leave it here to rot.” 

They were silent as they road out of town, Dutch driving dangerously fast, slowing only when Strawberry was out of sight. 

Whether he was trying to escape the law or the still fresh memories of what had happened, what had  _ almost  _ happened, Arthur wasn’t sure. But he saw John relax slightly when they reached the open, quiet fields. 

Arthur sank against his temporary bed, the trek to the wagon stealing what little strength he had been given. He tried to fade away again, to set the world aside until he was home. 

But he could feel John watching him, and he peeled his eyes open with a sigh. “What is it, Marston?” 

John started, looking away when he met Arthur’s gaze, shifting uncomfortably. “Nothing. Sorry. Go back to sleep.” 

“I can’t sleep if you’re  _ staring  _ at me Jo--” He broke off with a ragged cough, squeezing his eyes shut when it didn’t stop, stabbing ruthlessly at his throat. He reached up a hand to clutch at his rattling chest, and John leaned forward in alarm. 

“Are you ok?” he asked, and Arthur just managed to flash the younger man a glare. “Do you need water?” 

Arthur nodded frantically, eyes watering when the coughs only continued, and John disappeared from view. 

He was back a moment later, a cup of water in his hand threatening to spill over the edge from the rocking of the wagon. Arthur reached out to take it, hating how John had to help him when his shaking hand could barely grasp the glass. 

“There you go,” John soothed, and if Arthur had the strength he would have punched him. 

Swallowing still hurt like hell, but the coughing eventually ceased. He was able to breathe again once John pulled the glass away, pulling in gasps as he tried to stop his shaking. 

“He ok?” Dutch called from the front. Arthur lowered himself back down to the makeshift bed, not even bothering to try and shrug off John’s hand on his shoulder. 

“I think--” 

“I’m  _ fine,”  _ Arthur insisted, clearing his throat with a wince. All he wanted was to sleep, to forget any of this happened, to hurry up and get his strength back. But John was  _ still  _ staring at him, his worry achingly obvious, keeping Arthur from even beginning to relax. “Jesus, John. Will you back off?” 

“What, I’m not allowed to worry?” 

Arthur didn’t even have the energy to roll his eyes. “I’m fine, John,” he assured, voice still hoarse and gravelly, hardly reassuring to either of them. 

“You don’t  _ look  _ fine,” John mumbled. “And do you have any idea how many times we  _ thought  _ you’d be fine but you just...you just kept getting worse? God, Arthur, I kept--I kept thinking you were dying and I…” 

Arthur sighed, the guilt seeping in. He had no right to yell or demand anything from anyone. He hadn’t been the only one affected these last two weeks. 

I know,” he said. “But I didn’t die, John. Not yet, anyway. I’m still here.” 

“Yeah.” John let out a breath, running a hand through his matted hair. He looked just as tired as Dutch and Hosea. “It’s just...there were...there were times when you didn’t really understand what was happening and you were just...just in so much pain and you...a couple times you kept looking at me. You couldn’t talk but it was like you were asking for help and I couldn’t  _ do  _ anything. I kept thinking you were going to die, right in front of me while I could only watch and...and…” 

“I know,” Arthur said again, throat suddenly tight. John just shook his head. 

“No you don’t, Arthur,” he argued. “You don’t know. You were either asleep or completely unaware for the worst of it. And yeah that’s...that’s probably for the best but...but for us--you don’t know how scared we all were, Arthur. We weren’t even sure if we...if we were gonna get to say goodbye.” 

The wagon fell silent, John clenching his jaw and refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes. He wondered if Dutch and Hosea were listening, reliving what they’d all gone through because of him. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, as loud as he could manage, hoping everyone in the wagon could hear him. 

John scoffed. “For what, Arthur? None of this is your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, even if we all blame ourselves. I know you want to forget about all this but...I just...I just want you to be ok, alright? You can’t stop us from being worried.” 

Arthur nodded, wanting to say more, but he felt his eyes drifting shut, unable to fight against it. John sighed, and Arthur heard his bots scrape against the wood. 

“Get some rest,” he said quietly. “Let me know if you need anything.” 

“John?” Arthur said, throat beginning to throb again, his voice barely audible. John was silent, waiting, and Arthur swallowed. “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” John replied, but Arthur barely heard him as the darkness began to push him down again, the world fading. “You’re my brother, Arthur.”

  
  


They hadn’t woken Arthur up when they arrived back at camp, instead letting him swim in and out of consciousness as he was helped to his tent. 

Arthur could hear voices following him, all of them familiar, all of them making him squeeze his eyes shut as they blended together into a headache-inducing swarm of noise that wouldn’t leave him alone. 

He heard a voice that sounded suspiciously like a furious Bill Williamson, demanding to know what was wrong with Morgan, overpowered quickly by Sadie insisting on knowing who had done this to him. 

If Brandon Smallcut was still alive Arthur had no doubt the gang would have brought him the rich man’s head in a matter of days. If he was more awake and in less pain, he would have been flattered. 

Closer to where he was being dragged across the clearing, Arthur heard Charles’s voice, quiet and calming, simply asking if Arthur was going to be ok. 

Whatever answer Dutch gave was drowned out by Karen, screaming at Hosea somewhere behind him, the older man no doubt insisting on letting  Arthur have his space for the time being. 

He knew they were just worried, panicking after seeing Arthur dragged into camp after two weeks of silence. But it was hard to be appreciative when he was sure his head was about to split open. 

Finally, Arthur was being guided back down, his head resting against a pillow that felt vaguely familiar. He cracked his eyes open, seeing John and Dutch hovering over him, the surrounding voices growing more and more distant. 

“Jesus Christ! Will you people give the man some  _ peace?”  _ Dutch disappeared from view as he yelled, standing at the tent’s entrance, and despite his pain and uncertainty, Arthur couldn’t help but smile. 

“Just hang in there,” John said, and Arthur thought the younger might be squeezing his hand. “This’ll all be over soon.” 

  
  


When Arthur opened his eyes, he couldn’t breathe. 

His eyes widened against the fabric of the pillow held over his face, the memories flooding his mind, unlocked as it happened again. His attacker pushed down, snarling viciously as he pressed down, crushing him. 

 But this time he could fight back. He was still weak, still tired, practically defenseless, but he could kick and punch with more vehemence than before. But his attacker wasn’t alone, someone grabbing his arms and legs, pinning him against the bed with impossible force, rendering him completely helpless. He couldn’t move, couldn’t cry out, couldn’t  _ breathe.  _

The pillow was torn away, revealing nothing but inky darkness, but the hands around his legs and arms didn’t loosen. He still couldn’t move, couldn’t even open his mouth to try and get air, forced to lay completely still as he choked in silence. 

He thought he heard a voice, growing nearer, words jumbled and unclear. But there was another presence, someone looming over him, dark and threatening. 

They were pinning him down, a hand pressing down painfully on his throat and squeezing. Their other hand was hovering above him, decorated with familiar gold rings, Arthur forced to watch as it closed into a fist and was brought down in a fatal strike.

As soon as Dutch’s fist collided with him, air rushed into Arthur’s lungs and the bonds came undone. He pulled himself from his dream with a gasp, trembling and aching, hair soaked with sweat, holding back unwanted tears as his tent slowly came into focus. 

He closed his eyes, running a hand over his face as he sat up, wincing at the protests from his still mending body. It wasn’t the first time he’d had the dream since returning to camp, but it was the first time he was sure it was about Dutch. 

It felt so vivid and familiar, the pain always fresh whenever he woke up, and Arthur was beginning to suspect it was more than just a simple nightmare. 

He sighed, falling back against his pillow, feeling more exhausted than he had when he’d first gotten to sleep. He remembered John’s words, how hopeful and sure he had sounded that everything would be coming to an end.

They kept telling him that. Over and over again, someone would tell him that it was almost over. That things would go back to normal. 

Four days since he’d gotten back to camp and things weren’t any better. He’d been able to eat, Pearson and Hosea bringing him a bowl of fresh, steaming stew, water became easier to swallow and the pain became more and more bearable. 

But he wasn’t getting better. He’d caught a glimpse of himself in his shaving mirror, still looking sickly and pale. His strength wasn’t returning, he wasn’t gaining any weight, and the worried, sympathetic glances from the other gang members weren’t going away. 

He saw Dutch less and less until it seemed like he had stopped visiting Arthur completely. Visits from the others were brief and infrequent, everybody seeming to believe he wanted to be left alone. 

John and Hosea were at his side the most, and Arthur didn’t miss the worried glances they shared when they thought he wasn’t looking. He wondered if they saw it too. If they noticed that while he wasn’t worsening, he wasn’t getting better. 

Now that the exhaustion was beginning to wear off, now that he had some control over when he slept, Arthur’s sleep wasn’t as deep and peaceful as it had been. The nightmares just grew worse, the agony from the poison returning when he closed his eyes, the memories he’d been repressing coming back to him while he slept. 

And while he tried not to think about Smallcut, as much as the image of the man only made everything worse, Arthur couldn’t help but remember what he had said. What he’d told Arthur Dutch had done. 

As impossible as it seemed, as comforting as Dutch’s presence always was, Arthur couldn’t let it go. They weren’t telling him something, and the nightmares just left him feeling scared and uneasy. 

Carefully he pushed himself into a sitting position, grimacing at how ridiculously weak he still was, and pulled himself to his feet. His legs shook under the strain, Arthur briefly struggling to keep his balance, but he managed a timid step, then another, and another, until he was standing outside his tent. 

The camp was dark and quiet, the moon casting its silver glow on the dying campfire, the camp silent and peaceful. It was a relief, Arthur knew how much stress he’d caused them. He wasn’t the only one who needed the rest.  

He started forward, slow and wobbly, not quite sure where he was going, but he found himself pausing outside Dutch’s tent. The flap was open and Arthur, using the pole as support, peered inside. 

Dutch was draped across his cot, one arm hanging over the side, the man still and silent as he slept. His brow was furrowed, his mouth drawn, his rest far from peaceful. Molly was nowhere in sight, and Arthur wondered if they’d had another fight. 

He turned to leave, freezing when he heard Dutch stir. Arthur watched as Dutch’s eyes fluttered open as he pushed himself on his elbows, frowning when he saw what had woken him. 

“Arthur?” he asked, his confusion just visible through the darkness. “What’s wrong, son?” 

“Nothing,” Arthur said quickly, hating how weak his voice still was. “Didn’t mean to wake you I was just, uh...it’s nothing. Nevermind. You can go back to sleep.” 

He turned to leave, hoping he would have the strength to make it back to his own tent, stopping when he heard Dutch’s voice.

“What’s the matter, Arthur?” he asked. Arthur could still barely stand, his legs growing weaker. Dutch noticed, scooting aside to make room. 

“You need to sleep,” Arthur argued, but he was already moving across the tent, Dutch taking his arm to help him sit. 

“So do you,” Dutch said. “What’s wrong?” 

Arthur stared at his hands, feeling Dutch watching him. The sooner he got it off his chest, the sooner Dutch could get angry and they could forget the whole thing. 

“I, uh, I keep having this dream,” he started, feeling stupid as soon as he said it out loud. “Kind of just...feels like a memory. About when you said Smallcut tried to, uh, you know. And I just feel like...you...you didn’t... _ hit  _ me...did you?” 

He raised his head to look at Dutch, immediately feeling guilty and embarrassed for even thinking something so horrible. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why...it was just this dream. I didn’t mean to...Dutch, I know you wouldn’t--” 

“ _ Arthur.”  _ He stopped talking, Dutch’s voice full of so much pain and regret. “Arthur, I’m so sorry.” 

His heart sank. “So...you did?” 

“Jesus, not on  _ purpose,”  _ Dutch snapped. He stared straight ahead, shoulders hunched. “Smallcut was...was trying to suffocate you. You were too weak to fight back and he took advantage of that.” 

“I remember,” Arthur said. 

“I walked in just in time,” Dutch continued. “I was about to kill him right there. I lost control, Arthur. I couldn’t see straight. I didn’t even know it was Smallcut until after. You were...you didn’t understand, but you were in a lot of pain. You tried to get to me and I didn’t...I thought someone was trying to stop me from killing Smallcut--someone else trying to hurt you and I...it was an accident, Arthur but you didn’t  _ understand.  _ I lost control and I almost...I...Jesus, Arthur it’s not  _ funny.”  _

Arthur shook his head, doing all he could to bite back his smile. But he couldn't. Because it  _ was  _ funny. Or maybe the relief was making him lightheaded. Either way, his dread was already fading. 

“Arthur, I almost  _ killed  _ you.”

“I know,” Arthur said. “And I bet John and Hosea were pissed, but it was an  _ accident.  _ Christ, Dutch. The way you were acting had me thinking you were the one who poisoned me in the first place.” 

Dutch still looked vaguely confused, like he couldn’t understand how Arthur had let it go so easily. He looked almost like he was waiting to be screamed at, like he expected Arthur to blame him for what he’d done. As awful as it was, as terrified as he was sure he, and everyone else involved had been, Arthur couldn't even begin to bring himself to be angry. After all that had happened, everything the four of them had gone through, that wouldn't be fair to anyone. Especially Dutch. 

He shook his head, easily able to imagine what Dutch had done to himself, the stress he’d put himself under, the guilt that had no doubt been threatening to consume him. 

“Dutch,” Arthur said gently. “I know you didn’t mean to, alright? I know you. You’d never do that. You were trying to save my life. You  _ did  _ save my life.” 

“I’m the reason you got into that mess in the first place.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Arthur argued. “The only people we can blame are already dead. So don’t worry about it.” 

Something dangerous flashed in Dutch’s eyes. “That last bounty hunter--” 

“Let it go,” Arthur said. If what Smallcut said was true, as doubtful as that was, the bounty hunter was long gone. And if he wasn't, it was just one man. “Please, Dutch. Just...just forget about it. I just want to put the whole thing behind us.” 

Dutch finally met his eyes, pinching his brows as he watched Arthur curiously, before finally giving in, nodding. 

“Alright,” he agreed, moving to stand. “As long as you get some sleep.” 

Arthur nodded, feeling cold as soon as Dutch left his side. He followed, watching as Dutch grabbed extra bedrolls from the chest in the corner. 

“Been a while since you slept under the stars,” Dutch said, catching sight of Arthur’s curious glance. “We’ve been cooped up for weeks. It’ll be good for us.” 

Arthur smiled, carefully following on weak legs, Dutch moving slow as they made their way around the back of the tent. Hosea wasn’t the only one who always seemed to know what Arthur needed. 

Dutch laid out the bedrolls on the grass, moving to help as soon as he noticed Arthur struggling,  lowering them both to the ground. 

Within moments they were laying inches apart, staring up at the stars, Arthur breathing in the night air. He already felt more at ease than he had in days, the nightmares no longer threatening to bubble to the surface

“Dutch…” he trailed off, feeling the other man’s eyes on him. He felt like he should say something, something more profound than a thank you. But nothing came to mind. Nothing he could put into words. 

But Dutch, as always, understood. He’d raised Arthur like a son, had always been at his side, always knew what Arthur wasn’t saying. 

“Go to sleep, Arthur,” Dutch said. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.” 

Arthur nodded and let his eyes close, feeling peaceful for the first time in days as he faded out, knowing Dutch would be right where he promised. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! I wanted to bring this to a close so this last chapter took a little bit longer to finish. Thank you all so much for reading, I really loved writing this story. I plan on writing a lot more Arthur whump, both oneshots and longer projects like this.   
> I'm always open to any suggestions for future stories!


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